Parallelogram
by Wyoming Farnsworth
Summary: The Continuing Adventures of Frank Parker, Chrononaut ... 35 chapters and counting!
1. Default Chapter

Parallelogram: Chapter 01  
  
By E. L. Zimmerman (ncc1205@aol.com)  
  
"Whooooaaaaa!"  
  
His body thumped deep into the cushions of his pilot's chair, Chrononaut Frank Parker instinctively pulled back on his pilot's stick, completing the emergency shutdown of the TimeSphere's main drive system. To his right, the computer terminals sparked viciously, fireflies dancing across their hot metallic surface, as he felt the Sphere beneath and all around him crash down on solid earth.  
  
Immediately, as always, he heard the electronic whine of the disabling, overstressed computer and drive systems as they disengaged Time Relevant Activity. Without a doubt, the whine filled his bleeding ears.  
  
"Despite ... what they tell me," he muttered achingly, his body still trembling from the rush of time travel, "that ... never ... gets any easier."  
  
Letting go of the drive shaft, he reached up and unbuckled himself from the chair.  
  
"Never ... gets any ... damn easier."  
  
Standing, his legs quivering, he stretched his arm out, found the emergency release catch, and yanked the lever down for the door release. Angry hydraulics hissed, and he was greeted by a faceful of steam.  
  
"Can't they ... fix that?"  
  
Instantly, the hatch sparked, and the door blew open.  
  
Despite the irony, Frank Parker knew he only had so much time. He understood even his moments - perhaps especially his moments - had unique limitations. He trusted that the information he had brought back with him about the Heston Tower bombing had to get to the NSA as soon as possible if the disaster was to be diverted ... before it happened again.  
  
He smiled. Time travel always had that effect on him.  
  
*****  
  
On the ground outside, Parker stood upright slowly and squinted briefly up toward the brilliant sunlight, shading his eyes with his hand. Then, he slowly closed his eyes and breathed deep fresh air.  
  
"That never gets any easier," he repeated.  
  
Opening his eyes, he looked around at the forest he had put down in. The TimeSphere was at the base of a great valley, but, grimacing, he could just make out the telephone poles lining what must have been a rural road at the top of the hill.  
  
"Never any easier."  
  
*****  
  
About a half mile down the road, he found Finkle's Gas and Grill. He slowed his run and studied the setting briefly. Seated out front on an old style rocking chair was an elderly black gentleman dressed formally in gray slacks, a striped dress shirt, and suspenders.  
  
"Hello, there," the man called, raising a hand.  
  
"Right back at ya," Parker yelled, waving.  
  
Quickly, he trotted up to the raised platform and stopped in front of the man.  
  
"Are you Finkle?" the chrononaut asked.  
  
"I sure am," the man replied. "This here is my place."  
  
"Go figure," Parker snapped, panting, leaning down to clutch his knees with his hands. He was exhausted, but a mission was a mission. "Did you name this place after yourself, or did it come that way when you bought it?"  
  
"I inherited it," the man explained, rocking ever so slightly. "From my father. He inherited it from his. Third generation family business."  
  
"Go figure."  
  
"Did you see those lights?"  
  
"Lights?" the chrononaut asked.  
  
"Well, you can running from the direction where those lights went down."  
  
'The Sphere,' Parker reasoned.  
  
"Yeah, I saw," he agreed. "Up close and personal. Uh ... a helicopter ... yeah, a helicopter went down ... just over that ridge back there."  
  
"A helicopter?" the man asked, raising a curious eyebrow. "Around here?"  
  
"Yeah," Parker insisted, trying to sound convincing, "a helicopter." He glanced up at the man, and he realized immediately by the business owner's expression that he was skeptical. "It wasn't a big helicopter."  
  
"It sure made an awful sight."  
  
"Yeah," Parker agreed. "It does that from time to time."  
  
"A helicopter, you say."  
  
"I saw it with my own two eyes," Parker insisted, reaching up with one hand off his knee and pointing to his eyes. "It was in flames. The pilot managed to put it down safely."  
  
"I guess that explains the blood," the man said.  
  
"What blood?"  
  
"The blood on you."  
  
"What?" Parker asked. Then, he remembered that the more prominent side effect of time travel was slight bleeding from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Pulling up his sleeve, he wiped at his face, wondering how much was still showing. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. A power unit erupted in the helicopter ... in the back ... where I was."  
  
"You weren't the pilot?"  
  
"No," Parker answered. "The pilot's hurt. I need to use a telephone."  
  
Nodding in the direction of the corner of the gas station, the black man said, "Phone's over there. Dial zero and have the operator ring you through to the local emergency services office. I'm sure someone will be on their way out to help with your friend."  
  
"Thanks," Parker said. "Thank you very much."  
  
Quickly, he trotted over to the pay phone, despite his body's aching protests. Standing, he grabbed the receiver. Dialing quickly the telephone number that he trusted would give him a secure line, he waiting and listened to the ringing, inhaling and exhaling slowly, until someone picked up the phone.  
  
"This is Talmadge," Parker heard.  
  
"Talmadge," the chrononaut replied, suppressing his panting. "This is Parker. We have us a conundrum."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
Gruffly, Parker repeated, "Conundrum. Look, I'm out in the middle of nowhere in some backwater country. I'm bleeding as usual, and I said we have us a conundrum!"  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
"What do you mean?" he tried. "What do you mean, who is this?"  
  
"Just what I said," Parker heard, Talmadge's voice sounding angrier than usual. "And would you like telling me just how in the hell you got this phone number?"  
  
  
End of Chapter One  



	2. Chapter 02

Parallelogram : Chapter 02  
  
By E. L. Zimmerman (ncc1205@aol.com)  
  
  
Lying naked under the covers, Olga Vukavitch quietly stared up at the blank ceiling, completely and utterly lost in thought. Though she explored the deepest recesses of her memory, she couldn't recall a time in her life when she had been happier.  
  
As a student, studying Nuclear Physics at the University of Moscow, she had met Latrenov Propilkin, a classmate. It was love at first sight. Latrenov made her believe in the kind of love little girls dream they'll one day find. Quickly, he became a soulmate who sprinkled his magic into her life. But, when she found Latrenov was spending his late night hours sprinkling his magic into the life of that prissy Arynna, Moscow's storybook gymnastic princess, Olga cut all ties to him immediately.  
  
Lost in the melancholy aftermath of disappointment, she tried to find solace with Victor. Once again, the scholarly Vukavitch found comfort in deep brown eyes. Again, she believed that something inside her had stirred into womanhood, awakened from the sleep of youth and blossoming into the maturity that precedes passion, commitment, and, ultimately, marriage. Then, Victor found Helena, and Olga again experienced the tears of a broken, deflated heart.  
  
Not Vladmir ...  
  
Not Ivan ...  
  
Not Peter ...  
  
How could someone so brilliant in science be so blind in the ways of men?  
  
No.  
  
'Enough of the past,' she told herself. 'That past is not only years ago but also is thousands of miles away.' Smiling, she reminded herself, 'Now, you are truly happy.'  
  
She rolled over in bed, feeling the rustle of soft silk sheets against her porcelain skin, and she stretched, her back aching from ... last night's adventure.  
  
'How long does it take,' she wondered, closing her eyes, allowing a dreamy state to overwhelm her conscious mind, 'to find one's true love?'  
  
The BackStep Project had brought her to America, had delivered to these dry, phantom deserts of Nevada, where mile after mile stretched on, providing little or no signs of life, let alone existence. She remembered the day she had arrived at the facility. Getting out of the car, she had looked around, considered the barren landscape, and couldn't stomach her fear. 'What have you gotten yourself into, Olga Vukavitch?' Of course, the facility wasn't as large back then, as much of it was still under construction. As a matter of fact, she remembered that additional housing was under construction the day she had arrived. When she stepped from the car, she recalled that some of the men ... some of the sweating laborers laying a foundation for what would ultimately become BackStep's new operations center ... they had stared at her. As she slammed the car door and walked gracefully toward the main building, she thought she could feel their eyes on her.  
  
Were they attracted? Was it sexual? Or ... was it the fact that she was a woman? She trusted that, this being a secure installation, these men didn't belong to a common construction crew. No. These were men sworn to secrecy, employed by exclusive contract with the United States' infamous National Security Administration. Were they jealous of the fact that she was here while all of their male colleagues, equally qualified, were ignored?  
  
That's where they were wrong.  
  
In the months following her arrival, Olga learned that she possessed an singular understanding of certain scientific principles, quantum mechanics, and even old-fashioned common sense, all of which were in short supply with her American counterparts. All of them ... the men and the women ... they came and went. None of them lasted on such a grueling project. For a time, she believed that BackStep had a revolving door mentality, as Director Bradley Talmadge searched and searched for the right personnel. He gambled on the latest hotshots coming out of MIT, only to learn that they were poorly prepared for the 'scientific community' necessary for such a top secret experimental program. He did find some very strong prospects out of several elite California schools, much to Olga's surprise ... didn't they only produce surfers, actors, and movie directors? Still, few survived the countless but necessary failures that had to pave the way for the greatness followed.  
  
At the executive level, no one outlasted Olga Vukavitch.  
  
Finally, she had found happiness again. To her pleasant surprise, it wasn't linked to a man.  
  
However, being a woman, as extraordinarily attractive as she was gifted with genius, didn't make her job on the BackStep Project any easier. Just as Talmadge had interviewed scientist after scientist after scientist, he had screened hundreds of 'hotshots,' she remembered calling them.  
  
"We have to find the perfect Chrononaut, Olga," Talmadge had reminded her. "The screening process is more complex than any other dealt with in the history of mankind. There are bound to be ... certain sacrifices."  
  
And sacrifices there were.  
  
In the project's first year, she had partnered with him on interviewing hundreds of prospects. Initially, NASA referred many of them. One brave soul had been to the moon, and, due to his age, his reflexes were inferior for piloting the Sphere. The others ... most of them came from the military. Some of them were, specifically, from Special Forces. However, there were many she had interviewed without knowledge of their personnel records. Bradley Talmadge explained that he couldn't share their background with her for "reasons of national security."  
  
They all looked at her, glared at her, studied her.  
  
Were they, like those construction men, wondering what she was doing here? Were they attracted to her, or were they questioning her commitment to the project ... because she was a woman?  
  
After a while, she stopped trying to read their minds, deciding it was pure folly.  
  
Those who were selected, those fortunately few, brave souls ... died.  
  
In many cases, she had been the last one to speak with them before sending them into the unknown that was the infancy of time travel. She felt that burden, late at night, when she was alone in her room. She couldn't recall the number of times she had cried herself to sleep over the deaths of men whose name she couldn't remember. But she never forgot the faces. They always came back to her. When she slept. Sometimes when she ate along in the cafeteria. They stared at her ... like that construction crew ... like the other scientists brought in and kicked off the project ... like the candidates considered for the BackStep Project. Sometimes, she still felt their eyes on her as if from beyond the grave. The thought always sent shivers through her soul.  
  
Finally, there came one.  
  
As a girl, a teacher had told her a fairy tale, one of those rare kind that actually ended in a moral. Although she tried on countless occasions, she could never fully remember the story ... something to do with a flock of sheep and the shepherd who watched over them. However, try as she might, Olga couldn't forget the moral of the story: "while there may be many, in the end there can be only one."  
  
Now, BackStep had its Chrononaut, and, with it came countless successes, adventures, and discoveries. Much to her surprise, with him came an emotion Olga Kukavitch hadn't expected: she had found love again in the shape of this brave man/child. Guarded as she had been for so many years, she was afraid to admit it. The day would come, she knew, that she would break through those emotional barriers separating the two of them ... especially after the events of last night. At Talmadge's insistence, the Chrononaut and Olga were treated to an impressive candlelight dinner. Afterward, they chatted in the back of the limousine, chiding one another about their backgrounds, their similarities, and their differences. The limo brought them back to headquarters. As they were walking into the building, Olga was overwhelmed with a sensation she hadn't felt in years. He was still talking, teasing her about an 'obvious chemistry' between the two of them, but she had stopped listening the moment he had extended his hand to her to help her from the car. Before she had taken his hand, she had stared up into his eyes and found that they had never looked so deep and sultry before. Much to her surprise, she responded to the warmth she was sensing in her belly and said, "I would like you to come with me, and I would like ... very much ... to wake in your arms in the morning."  
  
And she had.  
  
The creak of the bathroom door pulled her from her trance. Quickly, she rolled over to face the man walking slowly toward her.  
  
"Well," he said, "I don't mind telling you that I think we broke the record for the longest foreplay in the history of mankind."  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked, playfully throwing a pillow at him.  
  
He caught the pillow and pitched it back. Dropped onto the bed beside her, he lay down, exhausted, on his back. "You know damn well what I mean! It's been nothing but an emotional tennis match with you from day one, Olga! One minute, you act like you enjoy my company ... the next minute, you're calling me a grown child."  
  
"You are a grown child."  
  
"Then what you did last night broke the laws of fifty states, thank you very much."  
  
She laughed.  
  
Yes.  
  
She had found happiness.  
  
The playful banter that had been their relationship for so long was only a symptom of what she felt in her heart. She knew it to be true, and she knew she had to tell him. For all he had done for the human race, throughout his countless BackSteps, she owed him that one simple assurance.  
  
Sitting up, she pulled the covers with her to conceal herself from him.  
  
"Um," she began, nervously, "do you have a minute?"  
  
Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes. "Trust me, Olga. Now that I'm finally here, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"Then," she tried, pushing back the simmering fear starting to percolate in her stomach, "I have something I want to tell you ... Channing."  
  
  
End of Chapter Two  



	3. Chapter 03

Parallelogram : Chapter 03  
By E. L. Zimmerman (ncc1205@aol.com)  
  
  
Six Days, 21 Hours  
  
"Finkle, huh?"  
  
Exhausted, Frank Parker sat down on the steps that led up to the wooden porch, where the elderly black man kept rocking away in his chair.  
  
"That's right," the old man answered, maintaining a complacent back-and-forth, back-and-forth rhythm in his creaking rocker. He stared quietly at the calm forest surrounding the eatery, and he added, "Ebdon Finkle."  
  
"Ebdon?" Parker shot, not realizing how loud he had repeated the man's name. "Edbon AND Finkle?" Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder. Characteristic of any Backstep, it had begun to ache. Olga had wanted him to enroll in some physical therapy, but he remembered, with a smile, when she had slapped him at the suggestion of what physical therapy he needed most. "My, my. Those are two rare fixtures, Ebdon, this being the twenty-first century and all." Immediately, recalling his manners, the chrononaut turned and extended his hand up toward the gentleman. "Nice to meet you. Officially."  
  
Smiling, Ebdon Finkle reached down and gripped Parker's hand warmly. "Well, officially, it's nice to meet you, Mister - ?"  
  
"Uh," Parker stumbled, trying to find the right words. He had been trained, in these situations, to release as little information about himself as possible, but he felt a need to respond to a polite question. After all, what could a name hurt?  
  
"Frank," he finally surrendered.  
  
"No last name?"  
  
"You don't want to know," he mumbled. "Actually, it's better for you if you don't."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"Just the way it is, my friend."  
  
"That doesn't make much sense," Ebdon observed.  
  
"I get that a lot," Parker replied, smiling up at him.  
  
"I'll bet you do," the old man said, returning to glancing around his property as he rocked away comfortably. "Especially, if that's the way you introduce yourself. Why, Matilda and I raised all four of our children to introduce themselves in the proper way, giving out a first and last name, and always, always, giving a stranger a firm but friendly handshake. That's all you have in the world, when all's said and done, Frank. We've all got nothing to offer but a firm and friendly handshake ... along with a proper introduction."  
  
Parker set his helmet down on the step beside him. "You'll have to forgive my manners, Ebdon. I'm kind of ... kind of a recluse. Goes with the territory, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Can't say that I do."  
  
"Don't worry," Parker said, "I won't be here long enough to offend anyone else."  
  
"Friends coming to get you, are they?" the old man asked.  
  
"That's right," Parker answered. "They should be along any minute. Scout's honor. I'll be out of your hair and off this porch in no time."  
  
"These friends of yours?" the man persisted. "Do they know your last name?"  
  
Smiling, Frank glanced up at the elderly business owner. "You just won't give up, will you?" Receiving no response, he surrendered, "Parker. Frank Parker." Leaning closer to the man, he added, "Do me a favor? Don't tell anyone that I told you."  
  
Ebdon stopped rocking for a moment. "Son, why in the name of all that is sacred on this green Earth would anybody care?"  
  
Laughing, Parker found perfect logic in the old man's common sense. "I guess I never thought of it that way, Ebdon."  
  
"Mr. Finkle," he corrected. "See, now that I know we both have last names, I say we use 'em."  
  
With that, the old man resumed his rocking.  
  
"You're not a helicopter pilot," Ebdon announced, not looking at the chrononaut but, instead, studying the helmet.  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"That's no helicopter pilot's helmet," the man explained, pointing at it. "I've ridden in a helicopter. Took one of those rides at the State Fair. Flew over the entire fairgrounds. Granted, it was a couple of years back. Helicopter pilots, they wear more of a headset, not a helmet. You know? Kind of like big electronic ear muffs. They're insulated to cut down of the noise produced by the rotor, and they also provide for the earpieces to a radio communication system. A microphone stretches down, usually from the left earpiece. It curls around right to the front of the pilot's mouth. That's what helicopter pilots wear." Again, he pointed at the helmet. "That thing you have there ... well, that looks kind of like the one Neil Armstrong wore when he stepped out on the moon in 1969."  
  
Suppressing a laugh, Parker realized he couldn't compromise the project, himself, or his mission. "I've got to hand it to you, Ebdon. There's no pulling a fast one on you. This here?" He held up the helmet for a second. "It's an experimental model. Top secret. Very hush-hush."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well," Parker began, "if I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"  
  
For a second, the man stopped rocking. He studied Parker's smile for several moments. Slowly, he resumed. "I guess you're right about that."  
  
Lifting his head, Parker could make out the sound of trucks roaring in the distance. Tilting his head, he also thought he heard the whirling blades of a helicopter ... maybe two ... on approach to his location.  
  
'Strange,' he thought. 'Talmadge has never endorsed that kind of manpower being dispatched previously ... but, then again, that phone call wasn't exactly routine either.'  
  
Parker felt a nudge on his shoulder.  
  
He turned to look. To his surprise, Ebdon Finkle was holding out a handkerchief.  
  
"You're bleeding," the man said simply.  
  
Brushing the back of his palm under his nose, Parker glanced down at the fresh blood that stained his hand. "Oh," he replied. "Yeah. That happens ... uh ... when I put it down too fast. Air currents. Turbulence. Stuff like that."  
  
"An experimental helicopter?" Ebdon tried.  
  
"I don't think I said it was an experimental helicopter," Parker admitted, taking the handkerchief and dabbing under his nose and around his eyes, the more common points of cellular weakening. "I said I was wearing an experimental helmet. That's all."  
  
Curious, he glanced up at the elderly rocker. "Thanks for the handkerchief, by the way."  
  
"Don't mention it," Ebdon replied. "I don't want it to nauseate my customers."  
  
"Your customers?"  
  
Parker suddenly noticed about a dozen faces pressed against the glass, staring out from their dinner tables at him.  
  
"I wouldn't want the sight of blood to make them sick to their stomachs," Ebdon continued. "That wouldn't be good for business."  
  
"No," Parker agreed. "It wouldn't."  
  
Suddenly, several massive green Army trucks swung into view from deep around the curve, coming from the direction Frank Parker had hiked a few hours earlier. They were rapidly bearing down on Finkle's Gas and Grill. Squinting, Parker could make out several armed soldiers hanging off the rear of each truck.  
  
Armed soldiers.  
  
Heading this way.  
  
"What the hell?" Parker asked, rising.  
  
"Are these your friends?" Ebdon asked, stopping his rocker as he leaned forward to study the virtual platoon arriving on his property.  
  
Slowly shaking his head, Parker answered with the only words he could bring to mind: "I guess so."  
  
As the trucks ground to a halt on the dirt shoulder, two black Apache helicopters soared just over the rooftop of the Gas and Grill. They roared loudly, shaking the windows of the establishment, and Parker had to steady himself from being blown over in the ruckus. The armed soldiers leapt from the rear of the trucks. Immediately, they scrimmaged, taking up the formation of a line quarantining the Gas and Grill from any approaching motorists. The passenger door of the lead truck opened, and an officer wearing a pressed uniform hopped down to the gravel, marching toward the porch.  
  
"This isn't right," Parker muttered.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Nothing, Ebdon," the chrononaut said. "You ... you just stay where you are. Don't get up. Don't make any sudden moves. Do you hear me?"  
  
"Why shouldn't I get up?" he asked. "They're on my property."  
  
"Just don't get up," Parker insisted. "I don't want to responsible for your safety if one of these recruits gets trigger happy on us. Understand?"  
  
"Whatever you say, Frank."  
  
Two soldiers suddenly flanked the smartly dressed officer marching up to the porch of the Gas and Grill. The soldiers immediately raised their rifles, bearing down on the Frank Parker, specifically zeroing in on the precise spot where the chrononaut stood.  
  
Nervous, Parker took a step sideways to cut them off from targeting Ebdon Finkle.  
  
"A simple ride would've sufficed, fellows," Parker tried, as the trio came to a halt directly in front of him. "No need for the military escort."  
  
The officer was young. His face was unwrinkled by the vagaries of age or maturity that typically marked seasoned military personnel. His lips were drawn tight over his teeth, and he didn't smile when he asked, "Are you Frank Parker?"  
  
Slowly, Parker nodded. "If it'll get your men to lower their weapons, I'll answer to the name of Betty Boop." He jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant behind him. "There are people in there, sir. They don't need to be frightened any more than I do."  
  
This time, the officer smiled. When he spoke, however, he screamed.  
  
"ARE YOU FRANK PARKER?"  
  
Realizing that he was in the middle of a situation he couldn't begin to understand, Parker deliberately replied, "I'm Frank Parker. Former CIA. Currently assigned to Project Backstep, reporting to Bradley Talmadge, who seems to have outdone himself on this practical joke, if I may say so."  
  
Gesturing for his escorts to move in, the officer answered, "For the record, sir, there's absolutely no scientific possibility that you're Frank Parker."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Seize him. Get a lock-down this establishment. I want Parker under arrest, and take the old man with him."  
  
Moving in, one of the armed guards barked, "Sir, we are placing you under military arrest."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Parker protested, raising his hands, palms out, at the advancing men. "I already told you. The joke's on me, and it's gone far enough already."  
  
"Sir, this is no joke, sir," the guard snapped.  
  
"Where's Donovan?" Parker demanded.  
  
The officer in charge held up his hand, and the soldiers stopped.  
  
"Where's Donovan?" Parker repeated. "Commander Craig Donovan? Where is he?"  
  
"Mr. Parker or whomever you are," the officer began, "I'm going to ask you only once to keep your mouth closed and your opinions to yourself. If you resist arrest, I have orders to respond with extreme prejudice out of concern for our national security. My men will shoot you at my command." Grimacing, he looked the chrononaut over. "I certainly hope that you won't let it come to that for the sake of this old man and his customers."  
  
"Now you listen to me," Parker taunted, taking one step forward, "and I'll make this perfectly clear. I'm not going anywhere until I speak directly to either Bradley Talmadge or Commander Craig Donovan."  
  
The officer nodded.  
  
Frank Parker felt the butt of a soldier's rifle whack across the rear of his neck. Stars erupted in his vision as he sensed his knees weakening. He dropped forward, closing his eyes, and fell face-first into the dirt, unconscious.  
  
  
END of Chapter 03  



	4. Parallelogram Chapter 04

Chapter 04  
  
Six Days, 20 Hours, Fifty-five Minutes  
  
Olga opened her mouth, knowing that now - for once in her short, crazy life - she was going to say the words that she so desperately wanted to say - that she was going to say them to someone she so desperately wanted to say them to - that she was at the beginning of a new beginning - the start of an entirely new life in a lifetime years away from a place she ever imagined she could possibly be. She looked into Channing's eyes, she opened her mouth, and -  
  
Instead, her telephone chirped.  
  
Channing brushed his warm body next to hers. Laughing, he quipped, "Do you want to tell me how you managed to pull that trick, sweetness?" He stroked one finger along her firm chin and added, "Do you want to tell me how it is that - when we're almost in the middle of what appears to be an Earth- shattering breakthrough in commitment - life as we know it gets turned upside down? Eh, Vukavitch? What is that? Some kind of Russian karma?"  
  
She rolled her eyes at him. At times, he held the key to her heart. Still, in the meantime, he could be as childish as the worst man she had ever met. Grimacing, tugging the thick comforter with her as she slid toward the bedside table, she spat back, "Don't even start with me."  
  
The phone buzzed a second time before she snatched it from the receiver.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Olga," she heard. "It's Bradley."  
  
In his voice, she heard the sense of urgency that only seconds ago she had felt in her heart.  
  
"Bradley, what is it?"  
  
"There's been . we have a situation."  
  
Suddenly, she imagined that the receiver grew cold in her palm. She tightened her fingers, uncertain as to what came next.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly, sitting up. "What is it? What's happened?"  
  
"I'd rather you come down here."  
  
"Bradley, please. You're scaring me."  
  
"Olga, I need you to get down here right away. There's been ."  
  
His voice trailed off into utter silence. Shortly, in its place, she heard the growing thud-thud-thudding of a nervous pulse.  
  
"Bradley, please," she whispered.  
  
He cleared his throat, and then, flatly, he said, "Conundrum."  
  
Gasping, she pulled her free hand up to her mouth.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"I'm talking about every risk we've taken in the pursuit of our own brand of temporal justice," he argued. "You heard what I said, and you know - perhaps better than the rest of us - what that singular word means. Because you do, I would imagine . right now . you're feeling exactly what I'm feeling," Talmadge offered. "I'm talking about the distinct possibility that - somehow - the very fabric of time is coming undone."  
  
"Bradley . but how?"  
  
"The situation room," he replied. She thought she heard other voices, now, in his office, but she couldn't be certain. Probably Ramsey. By the sounds of the crisis, she wasn't surprised. "Now, Olga. Right now. If there's ever been a time for you to hurry, this is it."  
  
Nodding, she agreed. "I'm on my way."  
  
"Oh, and if you happen to know the whereabouts of the world's favorite chrononaut, I'd recommend that you stop there first. Bring him along. Of all of the people assigned to Project Backstep, he'll need to hear what's happened the most."  
  
END of Chapter 04 


	5. Chapter 05

Chapter 05  
  
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-Five Minutes  
  
*** Somewhere over the Atlantic ***  
  
"I've always loved your country."  
  
Indiri Farris glanced up from copy of 'Splash' Magazine she was reading - thumbing, mostly, glancing for the glitzy industry advertisements of the models she represented now that she had graduated from fashion model to respected fashion model agent. She stared over briefly at the gentleman beside her.  
  
"My country?" she asked, flipping another photo-charged page. "What makes you think America is my country?"  
  
R.E. DeMarco smiled at her. "Come now," he tried, his voice possessing a distant, romantic rumble. "With a face like that, you can't tell me you're not American. I can pick them out of - how do you say - a police line-up."  
  
'All right,' she thought, 'if that's how you wanted to play it, mister.' She hadn't boarded the plane in London with the intent to flirt with any passenger - let alone a complete stranger - while crossing the ocean, but she did have her skills. Skills, if not properly used, would be lost in the natural passage of time, and Indiri - having swallowed her pride to stay in the cut-throat business of fashion - wasn't about to finish second place behind any woman, let alone any man.  
  
Confident, she tossed her thick, auburn hair back and turned to glare into his dark, brown eyes. She smiled, showing the pearliest of her pearly whites, and she narrowed her glance on him like a thin, laser beam sighting its prey.  
  
"Never underestimate an American, my good friend," she challenged. "We'll always get you when you least expect it."  
  
He smiled back at her, clearly interested in her wholesome looks. "I don't doubt it."  
  
She closed the magazine. The advertisements could wait - for now.  
  
"Might I assume," she tried, smoothing her voice with a husky tremor, "that you are not American?"  
  
He leaned forward, glancing down at the magazine cover she held. "If you were to assume as much, then I would have to say that you would be correct." Pulling his stare upward suddenly, he met her eyes. "If you were to assume, that is."  
  
'You've lost already, mister,' she thought.  
  
Relaxing in her seat, she smiled. "Where's home?"  
  
"For now," he answered, "Paris."  
  
"Paris? How romantic."  
  
"Not really."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No, not really Paris," he admitted. "Actually, it's a little villa outside of Paris. I was born there, raised there. Of course, I left there when the need struck me, but I tend to get back from time to time. More, now that I'm a bit older and have come to appreciate what the small and the quiet have to offer. Still, it isn't a very large place. It's hardly worth mentioning. In fact, it's so small that it probably does not appear on one of your American maps."  
  
She tilted her head. "You never know about that. The world is getting smaller and smaller every day. Isn't that what they say?" She gestured easily at the plane's empty aisle. "Today, you can board a flight and be in another country in a matter of hours. Today, any man or woman can breeze the news channels from continent to continent. We know, in an instant, what's happening anywhere we want to know about on the entire planet." She pursed her lips before concluding, "The way I figure it, you and I are practically neighbors."  
  
He nodded. "I like the sounds of that."  
  
'I'll bet you do,' she thought. 'I'll bet you do.'  
  
***  
  
Washington, D.C.  
  
The plane landed on time, and R.E. DeMarco carried Indiri's briefcase down the jetway. Once they stepped into the terminal, he turned and handed the case to her, bowing as he did. Laughing, she bowed back at him.  
  
"I'd invite you for a drink," he tried, "but I have the most tragic fear of rejection."  
  
She laughed, and, to her delight, she found herself feeling twenty years younger - far younger than the still-struggling-to-maintain vivacious forty- eight years old she was. Could this be happening? This young man? Possibly half her age? Was he seriously interested in her?  
  
"It's been my experience that - in order to overcome your fear - you need to embrace it."  
  
He stood firm, slowly smiling a seductive grin at her. "Indiri, I believe you just propositioned me."  
  
She arched her eyebrows, trying to act coy.  
  
"You can take it any way you like, Mr. DeMarco."  
  
Reaching up, he clasped his hands over his heart. "Alas, I cannot."  
  
'Sonuvabitch,' she thought, and she nearly called him one to his face.  
  
Seeing her expression, he quickly pulled his hands away from his chest. He pointed, and she turned. Leaning against the wall, not very far from where they stood, a tuxedoed young man stood holding a sign.  
  
'DeMarco,' it read.  
  
"Oh," she sighed, relieving.  
  
"But I would like to get your telephone number."  
  
"Of course."  
  
From the flap of her briefcase, she pulled her business card. Extending it to him, she explained, "My cell phone is on the bottom." Trying to hide any sense of desperation whatsoever, she added, "Please feel free to call me any time you like." Shifting on her feet, she inhaled deeply, hoping that the simple act of breathing caught her suitor's eye. "If you're going to be in the States for a few days, I'd love the chance to - show you some sights."  
  
"Some sights?"  
  
Again, she flashed him her bedroom eyes. "Some very special sights."  
  
He tilted his head back. "I will call."  
  
"I'll wait to hear from you."  
  
As he turned to go, she realized that - despite her best efforts at keeping up in the romantic banter of the trans-oceanic flight - she had forgotten the most obvious.  
  
"Mr. DeMarco?"  
  
Quickly, he wheeled around.  
  
"The R.E.?" she asked. "What do they stand for?"  
  
Casually, he answered, "Richard."  
  
"That's the R. How about the E.?"  
  
He smiled at her. "Indiri, I will tell you that the next time we are together."  
  
Forgoing any sense of composure, she lost her breath as she watched him walk away.  
  
***  
  
"It is good to see you, sir," the man in the tuxedo said.  
  
DeMarco stopped. Quickly, he studied the young man's outfit. "Please lose that awful suit."  
  
"I will be more than happy to accommodate you, sir."  
  
"And stop calling me 'sir' - cousin."  
  
"And what would you have me call you?" he asked. "Could it be - Efnisien?"  
  
Immediately, DeMarco forced all expression from his face. He closed his eyes for a momentary respite. He felt the rage boiling inside him, he felt the pure, unabashed hatred for the soil upon which he now stood. He hated America, and he hated all that it stood for. He hated its history. He hated its people. Especially, he found himself hating the fact that he was forced to make idle chat with an aging former fashion model aboard one of the country's premiere international flights. He would have to eliminate her. He knew that there was no other choice. It wouldn't be today. It wouldn't be tomorrow. He would probably take what he wanted from her - from her aging, beginning-to-succumb-to-age body - and then he would finish her. She would probably die happily - with youth on her mind.  
  
Gradually, with great effort, DeMarco found his calm. He waited for the serenity to overtake him before he stated, "Don't ever use that word aloud again - or I will kill you - blood relative or no."  
  
END of Chapter 05 


	6. Chapter 06

Chapter 06  
  
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-One Minutes  
  
With Channing Michelson close on her heels, Olga pushed open the glass door and stepped into the Neverland's darkened Situation Room.  
  
First, she saw Nathan Ramsey. The trim, thin-haired Chief of Security - his tie characteristically loosed about his neck - quickly held up his index finger to his lips, ordering her to remain silent. Beyond him, she saw Bradley Talmadge, Director of Project Backstep. He nodded at her briefly, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight, and then returned his attention to the viewscreen. She studied it, noticing the familiar visual indicators of the VID/COM/SAT link.  
  
"What's happening?" she muttered to Channing.  
  
"You know what they say about your guess being as good as mine."  
  
Brusquely, Ramsey whirled on them and hissed a loud, "Shhhh!"  
  
Quickly, they took their assigned chairs at the conference table.  
  
"Agent," Talmadge interrupted, "if I may, I'd like to point out that two members of my operations team have joined us in conference."  
  
The man on the screen - dressed entirely in a black suited in perfect round eyeglasses - held a finger to his ear, clearly pressing the audio source down so as to better hear Talmadge's words. Then, he nodded. "Thank you for the update, director."  
  
Gesturing with his hand, Talmadge waved in Olga's direction. "This is Olga Vukavitch. She's our Chief Medical Officer. With her is Channing Michelson. He's the current chrononaut assigned to Backstep." After a brief pause, the leader concluded, "I'd like the both of you to meet Alberto Ruiz. He's a field agent for the NSA. Think of him as our eyes on the scene."  
  
"Dr. Vukavitch?" Ruiz interrupted.  
  
Sitting forward, Olga stared at the young agent's face.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I've heard a great deal about the work you've done with the project. It's an honor to serve you and your teammates in this time of crisis."  
  
Curtly, she nodded her reply. "There will be time for pleasantries later, Agent Ruiz."  
  
"And Mr. Michelson?" Ruiz leaned closer to his video link. "Let me personally say that the work you've done for this country is beyond the call of duty - for any of us - sir."  
  
Smiling, Michelson waved at the video monitor. "Make sure I'm on your list for Christmas cards this year, agent, and that's a good enough thanks for me."  
  
Olga stared at the screen. Over Ruiz's shoulder, she made out field operatives dressed in pale blue pressure suits - contamination protective gear, she knew.  
  
"Agent Ruiz," she began, "can you bring us up to speed on what's happened?"  
  
Again, the agent stuck his finger in his ear. "You'll have to apologize for the delay in my report, doctor," he replied. "As you can see, I'm in the field, and the noise level is very distracting."  
  
"There's no need to apologize, Albert," Talmadge interrupted.  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
To her shock, Olga watched as more and more of the heavily-suited, heavily- protected personnel moved across the screen behind the NSA's agent. Several of them were marching in procession, carrying massive hoses that typically supplied -  
  
"Oxygen?" she asked quizzically. "Mr. Ruiz, are those men supplying oxygen to some containment facility?"  
  
Startled, the agent took a few steps backward, hoping to reveal the activity behind him. A massive plastic structure was under construction - suited men and women were sealing off what looked to be a simple structure - a house, perhaps a small shop - completely with quarantine materials.  
  
"Yes, Dr. Vukavitch," Ruiz finally asserted. "We have here what we believe to be a Level Prime Temporal Containment Situation."  
  
"Level Prime?"  
  
From his spot at the conference table, Michelson let out a gasp. "That's - that's impossible."  
  
"To the contrary, Channing - that's the highest degree of containment possible for operations even marginally associated to a Backstep failure," Talmadge added.  
  
Rising, Michelson strode casually around the dark conference table. He approached the screen, reaching out to touch it as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing with his eyes.  
  
"Don't get your dirty fingerprints all over the equipment, Michelson," Ramsey sniped.  
  
Without so much as the turn of his head, the chrononaut shot back, "Shut up, Ramsey."  
  
"Not now, gentlemen," Talmadge ordered.  
  
The temporal technicians scurried about the screen. Their isolation tent was almost finished, and they were connecting the oxygen cabling to broad circular ports.  
  
"If Olga's right," Michelson reasoned, pointing at the image, "and those men are connecting oxygen, that means that you're containing people inside that - that - that crypt, Bradley."  
  
Gruffly, the director shook his head. "That's no crypt you're looking at, Channing."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Agent Ruiz broke in over the com line, his expression hopeful.  
  
"Yes, agent?" Talmadge asked.  
  
"If I may?"  
  
The director chewed his bottom lip for several seconds. Finally, he agreed. "Go ahead."  
  
Comfortable, Ruiz stepped center screen once more. "Gentlemen - and doctor - what you are looking at is what we initially believe to be a temporal disaster. It's precisely the kind of temporal event that the NSA Oversight Committee feared might happen once your backsteps became more commonplace. I'm not quite certain how to explain everything that I believe is of the utmost importance, but this situation requires the kind of time that perhaps not even an authorized backstep could fix."  
  
"Bradley?" Olga burst out, no longer to stomach the partial explanations and intelligence doublespeak. "Please! Someone! Anyone! Tell us what's going on!"  
  
Immediately, Ruiz barked into his collared microphone.  
  
"We've discovered another Sphere."  
  
The conference room fell silent.  
  
"As I said, Olga," Talmadge tried softly. "It's codename - it's conundrum."  
  
Michelson held up a hand. "Wait a minute, Bradley." He pointed at the screen. "Are you saying that - this entire operation - this is the result of Conundrum?"  
  
Standing quiet, the director nodded.  
  
"How is that possible?" the chrononaut demanded. "I mean - how is that possible - by any stretch of the imagination?"  
  
"Channing, don't."  
  
Everyone in the room turned toward Olga. Slowly, she stood. She realized that a glimmer of moisture she felt at the corner of her eye probably showed to all of them. She took a deep breath. Glancing at the screen, she watched as the technicians completed their task in attached air lines to the newly constructed containment facility. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the facility was erected in record time - probably faster than the NSA Task Force Level Prime teams ever achieved.  
  
"Olga," Michelson interrupted her fascination with the events unfolding on the monitor. "You tell me, sweetness - how is this possible?"  
  
Calmly, she swallowed.  
  
Simply, she said, "It's Frank Parker. That's how it's possible."  
  
END of Chapter 06 


	7. Chapter 07

Chapter 07  
  
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Forty-Six Minutes  
  
Ignoring the dull ache in the middle of his forehead, Parker slowly opened his eyes to the blinding glare. He felt his stomach churning, and he thought he was about to wretch. Instead, he heaved a fresh gulp of air into his lungs, coughing up and spitting out a mouthful of blood. To his surprise, the blood splattered against -  
  
Glass?  
  
Instinctively, he tried to sit up, only to smack his already protesting skull against the thick glass pane of an isolation tube.  
  
"What the hell .?"  
  
Lifting his hands, he brought them up to the glass and wiped the blood away. Beyond the glare, he made out the shadows of scurrying bodies - people running to and fro and back again. They were dark, faceless shapes with elliptical heads - no, he realized, not heads.  
  
Helmets.  
  
"What the hell is going on?"  
  
Rolling his hands into fists, he pounded on the thick surface.  
  
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING?"  
  
Suddenly, a helmeted figure stepped into his view. The shape quickly raised a hand and placed it on the outside of the glass plating.  
  
"I'm going to have to ask you to calm down, Mr. Parker," the voice said - Parker recognized it immediately as female. However, she didn't speak clearly. Her tone was augmented. Somehow, she was speaking through a communications system - perhaps some kind of unique audio link between her suit and his sealed coffin. "Either calm down in there, or I'll have to sedate you."  
  
Reflexively, he punched the glass with as much force as he could muster.  
  
"You're going to have to sedate me anyway once I find a way out of here!" he threatened. "What the hell is this? What's going on? Who are all of you people?"  
  
"Mr. Parker, you're going to have to settle down."  
  
"I'll settle down when you start answering my questions!" he shot back.  
  
He watched her fingers relax evenly over the glass. "We're on your side, Mr. Parker. We're with the NSA. We're part of an temporal response team."  
  
"A temporal response team?" he asked, his head now throbbing. "What's that? What's that for?"  
  
"We were sent here by Director Talmadge."  
  
"Bradley?" Parker asked excitedly. "Is he here?"  
  
"Director Talmadge is safe at the Backstep Facilities in Nevada, sir."  
  
Angrily, Parker snapped, "I know more than a thing or two about the Backstep Facilities, thank you very much, but what I still don't know a damn thing about is who you people are and what you're doing here!"  
  
"We're trying to contain this situation, Mr. Parker."  
  
He watched as her fingers tensed on the glass.  
  
"Contain what? What situation?"  
  
"Your arrival here."  
  
Lifting his head, Parker pressed his nose to the glass and squinted. He barely made out the restaurant - what was the man's name? Finkle? Finkle's Gas and Eat? Was that it? He saw blue-suited figures moving in and around the diner, rushing up the stairs, hurrying in and out of the doorways. Then, he thought he saw -  
  
People.  
  
Ordinary people.  
  
The same people who - moments earlier, not long before his arrival - were doing no more harm to mankind by sitting inside Finkle's fine establishment enjoying a late lunch.  
  
The patrons were being herded -  
  
Like cattle.  
  
"What's that?" Parker asked. "What are you doing with those people?"  
  
He heard her knock on the glass plate.  
  
"Mr. Parker, I'm going to have to ask you to lie back down."  
  
"Not until I get an answer as to what you're doing with those people."  
  
"They've been - exposed."  
  
"Exposed?" he repeated, uncertain as to its meaning. "Exposed to what?"  
  
"Mr. Parker, lie down."  
  
Again, she rapped on the glass, and, argumentative, he smashed back at her.  
  
"What have they been exposed to?"  
  
Suddenly, he noticed her shape move. He watched as the blue rubber fluttered as she lowered herself onto one knee. Then, he saw her helmet, and, beyond the glass, her saw her face. She had wonderful blue eyes, high cheekbones, a thin nose, and an imminently kissable mouth - if it weren't for the separation he suffered. He met her eyes, and he saw her concern in them.  
  
"They were exposed to you, Mr. Parker."  
  
He winced. "What? What are you talking about? What does that mean? What did I do to them?"  
  
She shook her head. "That's what we're working on finding out."  
  
To his surprise, he grew angry in an instant. He wanted to reach out and grab her, to throw her out of the way, to march over to those innocent civilians, to speak with them, to assure them that nothing was wrong, to guarantee their safety, to let them know that - despite present circumstances - everything was going to be all right, everything was going to be perfect. But he couldn't. He was trapped under layers of steel and glass, and some fancy-suited good looker from the NSA was calling the shots.  
  
His rage growing, he shouted, "Let me out of here!"  
  
"I can't do that, Mr. Parker."  
  
A small hissing noise filled the canister. He glanced toward his feet - the source of the hissing - and he noticed a waft of brown smoke climbing toward him.  
  
"Let me out of here!"  
  
"Mr. Parker, you'll be all right in a few minutes," she cautioned. "Breathe deeply. Let the gas do its work."  
  
"LET ME OUT OF HERE THIS DAMN MINUTE!"  
  
He raised his fists to pound on the glass again, but, slowly, he sensed a growing weakness. The pounding of his heart filled his ears, and Frank Parker twitched. He dropped his head back to the pillowed mat, and he blinked. His eyelids were suddenly very heavy, and he lost focus of the woman with the beautiful blue eyes and the high cheekbones, and he decided it was time to just relax and allow the gas to do its work on him, and he closed his eyes and thought about what Ebdon Finkle would say to him the next time the two of them met.  
  
END of Chapter 07 


	8. Chapter 08

Chapter 08  
  
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Thirty-Nine Minutes  
  
"All right, all right, all right," Michelson surrendered, holding up both of his hands in a gesture of inevitability. "Let's forget all about the latest quantum theories. Let's forget about the possibility - however remote - of temporal anomalies. Let's forget the fact that what you're talking about is nothing short of damned impossible - and now explain to me - in perfect English - how the hell this kind of thing can happen?"  
  
Taking several emphatic steps in the young chrononaut's direction, Ramsey blustered, "I'll tell you just how in the hell it happened! It's Parker, dammit! In all of the days he served Backstep, that psycho never once followed the damn rules!" Glancing back at the viewscreen, he added, "As far as I'm concerned, Agent Ruiz, you can leave that sorry sonuvabitch out there with the rest of the hicks he infected! Leave them together to suffer the ill effects of this temporal paradox he caused! See if they enjoy his company any more than I did!"  
  
Olga held up a firm hand. "We have no idea whether or not Mr. Parker is responsible."  
  
"The hell we don't!" the man bellowed. Leaning his palms on the conference table, he stuck his face near hers. "You said so yourself, Olga! It's Frank Parker! The one-time certified lunatic! Given what's happened, how can he not be responsible?"  
  
"We don't know anything," she said flatly. "We're in the dark here, Mr. Ramsey, and I'll not play guessing games without the opportunity to examine Mr. Parker myself."  
  
"Is that what this is all about?" Ramsey retorted. "Proving that you didn't make a mistake?"  
  
Her face tensed. She stared at her aggressor for several long seconds before she corrected, "That isn't what I had in mind."  
  
Moving closer to the table, Michelson asked, "Then what did you mean?"  
  
She stared back at him - the man she loved, her partner, her soulmate - and she found that she lacked the words necessary to explain. Instead of what she wanted to say, she said, "It's - difficult, Channing."  
  
"Difficult?!" Ramsey spit the word out of his mouth as though it were sour milk. "Dr. Olga Vukavitch - you're not actually going to tell me that absence - absence of that crazy fool - has in some magical way made your heart grow fonder, did it?"  
  
She flashed him a steely glare.  
  
"I'm not telling you anything, Nathan Ramsey," she countered, "and I'm under no obligation to answer to you in matters of operations."  
  
"Stand down, Nate," Talmadge ordered, stepping in on her behalf. "That's about enough of this nonsense. You're jumping to more conclusions than we have time to consider."  
  
Ramsey stood upright, challenging his senior officer with a mere glance. "Then how do you explain it, sir?"  
  
"I can't," the director admitted. "Nor would I even make the attempt with so casual an observation of the facts. But, when you're dealing in the immeasurable unknowns of an alien technology I don't pretend to understand, jumping to conclusion about who and who is not responsible won't do us any more good than it will Agent Ruiz out in the field - so, as I ordered, stand down."  
  
Disgusted, Ramsey crossed his arms and stayed silent, sulking.  
  
Turning, Talmadge faced the video monitor. "Albert, is Frank conscious?"  
  
The man onscreen shook his head vigorously. "As I understand, he was when the ART arrived on the scene. One of Colonel Durbin's men knocked Mr. Parker unconscious."  
  
"Good for him," Ramsey muttered.  
  
"Nate," Talmadge warned.  
  
"What? Am I supposed to find that surprising, sir?" Ramsey quipped. "Parker is a wild card. He always was. He always will be. Hell, my own men punched his lights out more times than I care to remember."  
  
"And vice versa," Olga let slip. "Your lights, included."  
  
"Hey, Parker was a sneaky below-the-belt figher!"  
  
Angrily, Talmadge shouted, "Nathan!"  
  
Composing himself, the director of security mumbled, "Sorry, sir."  
  
Shaking his head, the director returned to the screen.  
  
"What is his condition now, Albert?"  
  
Agent Ruiz glanced around the scene. "As I understand, Dr. Welles is attending to him. She's on loan from a Langley task force that dealt with that saucer retrieval last fall in Vancouver that turned out to be a hoax. For our protection - and the safety of those he may've already affected - she's had Mr. Parker enclosed in a mobile isolation capsule."  
  
"How's the air in there?" Ramsey asked, halfheartedly.  
  
This time, Talmadge flashed the director of security an angry eye.  
  
"What?" Ramsey countered. "I was just curious."  
  
Shaking his head out of frustration, Talmadge asked, "How soon can you get him here, Albert?"  
  
"Here?" Ramsey barked. "Now, sir, that's enough! That's a security decision, and, if memory serves, you sure as hell didn't run it by me! Do I have to file a formal protest to see my authority respected?"  
  
"Where else can we take him, Nathan?" Talmadge demanded.  
  
"Well, what about the nearest military hospital?" the man reasoned. "Shouldn't he get a clean bill of health before he's shipped in here where all of the goodies are stored?"  
  
"A military hospital?" Talmadge barely contained his anger. "Nate, I know that you had some very strong personal reservations about Frank Parker, but he served this country. Not only did he serve it distinction, he served it alongside you - you and a lot of other good people who fell victim to circumstances beyond all of our control. If that service means nothing to you, then I'd just as soon have your resignation on my desk before this day is over than spend another minute arguing with you about what's in the best interest of resolving this crisis. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"  
  
Red in the face, Ramsey lowered his hands to his side. "Yes, sir. I'm - I'm sorry. That was inappropriate of me. I apologize."  
  
"Military doctors lack the experience with temporal mechanics that our staff can provide here," Talmadge explained. "Clearly, something is - amiss, that's the only word I can think of - in the time continuum. I'd rather have Frank here where we can question him than see him carved up like a guinea pig for temporal study." He took a deep breath and relaxed. "Besides, I'd rather have him under your security than under Colonel Durbin's. You know the man, Nate. Durbin doesn't. And I think you know what kind of a wild card Durbin can be. His tour of duty in Iraq should've ended in a dishonorable discharge, if you ask me. Yours is a judgment that I not only respect. Quite frankly, it's what I need right now."  
  
Embarrassed, Ramsey shuffled his feet. "Yes, sir. I'll do what I can."  
  
"Director Talmadge," Ruiz interrupted, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to logistics. "The situation here is under Black Ops control. I can have Mr. Parker airborne within the hour. I would imagine our flight time would be less than two hours. I'll have him there before nightfall, Nevada time."  
  
The director agreed.  
  
"That's the plan, Albert. And thank you. Do whatever you need to make this happen."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And Albert?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Talmadge smiled, reaching for his trademark cigar.  
  
"Nice work."  
  
END of Chapter 08 


	9. Chapter 09

Chapter 09  
  
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Five Minutes  
  
** Washington **  
  
Silently waiting for his luggage, Richard DeMarco stood in front of the concourse carousel. As the belt moved one dark leather bag after another past him, he looked up and studied the faces of the people populating the airport. Their expressions were either focused or haggard. "These people," he muttered disgustedly. "These blind and ignorant people." They were all hurrying about their business - meeting family, rushing toward ground transportation, chatting on cell phones, scurrying toward their next flight - and they shared one thing in common: they were all oblivious to the others walking around them.  
  
'Typical Americans,' he thought, realizing only momentarily that perhaps - by some freakish chance - they were not all of American descent. However, he convinced himself, they were all as guilty. If they were here, then they served America - the evil, the giant, the behemoth, the inconsiderate, the hated, the indifferent. The country and anyone in it deserved what was about to happen - the first domino in a series of falling dominoes he was going to set in motion - the inevitable beginning of the inevitable ending. America wouldn't go out with a whimper, he trusted. He would make sure it went out with a bang.  
  
'In good time,' he mused. 'All in good time.'  
  
From behind him, Emile stepped up to the carousel.  
  
"Can I help you with your baggage, sir?"  
  
Sighing, DeMarco closed his eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"  
  
"I am only playing my part."  
  
"Please. Go and play elsewhere."  
  
Emile laughed. "Relax, cousin."  
  
"I will relax once you have taken me very far away from this place."  
  
"This place?" the young man asked. "What is wrong with this place?"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with it," DeMarco replied. "I simply wish to be away from it."  
  
"You always were far too nervous, cousin."  
  
"And you always were far too young to know better, Emile."  
  
"I'm telling you, Richard. Relax. You are in America. Americans like other Americans because they can relax."  
  
"I am not American."  
  
"Have you not heard the advice about how to behave in Rome?"  
  
Ignoring the question, DeMarco watched the carousel. The bags were still filtering past, but he didn't see his yet.  
  
"Emile?" he finally asked.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"How long have you been in the States?"  
  
The tuxedoed man shuffled his feet momentarily. "For a very long time."  
  
"Has it affected you?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
DeMarco watched as a beautiful young blonde woman leaned over and reached for her bag from the carousel. Struggling with the weight of the piece, she winced, and - to her surprise - a gentleman in a grey suit immediately came to her assistance. He tugged the suitcase off the belt, and he helped her right the parcel on its wheels. Smiling, she thanked him, and they went on their ways.  
  
"Has it changed you?" DeMarco tried. "Has the great superpower made you - soft?"  
  
Emile stiffened. "Have you ever known me to be taken with matters so trivial, cousin? Like you, I have never been soft."  
  
"Have you become one of them?" DeMarco pressed.  
  
"To know your enemy, you must become him, Richard."  
  
"The man I just watched - he dropped everything he was doing in order to aid of a stranger - a beautiful blonde woman - someone he obviously did not know, someone who obviously meant nothing to him, someone he most likely would never see again in however long he lives his pitiful life." DeMarco cleared his throat before he asked, "Have you become a man like him?"  
  
The younger man shrugged. "Your true meaning escapes me, Richard. If I did not know you, I would think that you were insulting me."  
  
Smirking, DeMarco flashed his grin at his blood relation. "Cousin, I would not be so foolish as to insult you. But the blond woman who struggled with her suitcase. He stopped and helped her. Would you do the same? Would you help her, or would you let her learn for herself?"  
  
"You place far too much meaning in a simple act of kindness," Emile countered. "After all, what lesson is there to be learned from lifting a suitcase? Eh?" Glancing around, the young man stuck his hands in his pockets. "I think - like you have always been - you take far too many things far too serious."  
  
Slowly, the man nodded. "You may be right, but you have still not answered my question."  
  
With an edge of annoyance in his voice, Emile flatly replied, "Nor am I here for your amusement. Cousin."  
  
Finally, DeMarco saw his bag. It traveled the belt, and, when it reached his feet, he bent over and yanked it to his side.  
  
"Thank you, Emile. Now, I am ready."  
  
***  
  
In the limousine, DeMarco watched the passing buildings - the corporate plazas, the closed shops, the dark homes - and he knew America was asleep. He wondered how many people were tucked into their beds, feeling safe, nuzzling a false security that the world - despite what they might've been raised to believe - was truly a safe haven for all of mankind. For all races. For all colors. He studied the homes, and he knew - by the lights twinkling through their windows, by the colorful décor along the eaves - that Americans lived their lives ignoring the suffering that much of the world - much of his world - endured on a regular basis. He saw their homes, and he grew angry.  
  
"You have been preparing, as I've asked, no?" he said.  
  
"Of course, Richard."  
  
"You have been busy?"  
  
Emile smiled. "I have been very busy. Certainly, I have kept myself far busier than you might think, cousin."  
  
"Weapons?" DeMarco asked.  
  
"As you've requested."  
  
"Explosives?"  
  
"More than you had hoped for, cousin."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"It is," the driver answered. "Do not be misled by what you hear on the American evening news. America is full of capitalists. Capitalists are only concerned with money. They make it far easier than you would guess to arm oneself with - shall we say - the necessary tools for a revolution?"  
  
DeMarco nodded.  
  
"Take me there."  
  
"Richard?"  
  
"Take me to see what you've collected," he ordered. The houses - the lovely, simply, decorative houses - had made him angry. Weapons always had a soothing effect on him. "I'd like to see - for myself - what these capitalists have provided you with, Emile."  
  
"It's very late," the driver cautioned. "Are you certain that you wouldn't like to get some sleep? We could see the weapons in the morning. They will be waiting for you, as they are now."  
  
Shaking his head, DeMarco faced his cousin. "Seeing them - it would give me great joy."  
  
***  
  
From a recess in the car's dash, Emile pulled the palm-sized activator. He held the black unit up and pressed the single button on its face. Activating the garage door, he sat back in the driver's seat.  
  
"I have rented this space using the name of a dead American," he explained, chuckling.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes," he answered. "I watched the newspapers for several months. Obituaries. They are printed every day. For such a great country, they certainly pride themselves of celebrating their dead. Even those who are insignificant." He sighed, taking his cap off and tossing in on the dash. "In America, no death is more important than any other. Over here, the butcher who dies in his sleep is given a printed history in the newspaper - as much as the soldier who dies in combat in some foreign land."  
  
DeMarco smiled. "So you are saying - this garage has been rented by some dead butcher?"  
  
Emile nodded. "A man named Carter. He died from natural causes at the age of seventy-three." Leaning forward, he watched as the garage door finally lifted clear of the opening. He shifted the car into drive and accelerated easily. "He is survived by his wife and three children. More than like, his children will sell the business in order to raise money for their mother to continue living peacefully."  
  
"It is a shame - the things that children do to their parents."  
  
Emile parked his limousine and turned the engine off.  
  
"Like your father did to you, Richard?"  
  
"No, no," the dark-eyed man answered. "What my father did to me was to prepare me for the role I would serve in life." Smiling, he added, "What I did to him - well, that was a necessary evil."  
  
They both stepped from the car.  
  
Along the wall, DeMarco studied several boxes stacked one atop the other. He walked over and read the markings printed on them. 'Ammunition.' 'Explosives.' 'Secured Transport.'  
  
"Where will I find my pistol, cousin?"  
  
Nodding, Emile moved in front of his relative, reaching down and hoisting one of the crates up, setting it on top of another larger one. He flipped a clasp and slid the top back, revealing a cache of several small handguns. The pistols were neatly packed within a foam housing, and each weapon had several associated magazines - filled with hollow-point bullets - tucked adjacent.  
  
DeMarco languidly traced one of the Nine Millimeters with his index finger.  
  
"Have you tested each of them?"  
  
"More times than necessary, cousin."  
  
The elder man smiled. "That is good to hear."  
  
"Like you, Richard," Emile tried, "I do not wish failure upon us."  
  
"Thank you, Emile."  
  
DeMarco slipped one of the pistols into his hand. It fit wonderfully, perfectly balanced. It felt good, and the man couldn't remember the last time he had felt so at peace - certainly not since arriving on alien soil. Admiring the weapon's sleek lines, he casually flipped the safety into the 'off' position, pulled back the muzzle, loaded the firing chamber, and he turned to his cousin.  
  
"Emile, I am very sorry that you will not see the fruits of your labor."  
  
Gasping, Emile turned pale.  
  
"I am very sorry, young cousin."  
  
The gun barked loud in the quiet garage.  
  
The well-dressed driver seized his chest with on open palm. Quickly, his hand was enveloped in blood. He coughed, briefly, and DeMarco smiled at the sound of the wet release of air, knowing he had taken his first step toward a grand destination.  
  
Slowly, his eyes fluttering and his hand trembling, Emile slumped to the floor with his last breath - dead.  
  
END of Chapter 09 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
Six Days, Nineteen Hours, Fifty-three Minutes  
  
Standing in the center of a throng of scientists, Olga hardly felt at ease. These people were relying on her, looking to her for guidance, for direction. They needed to know what came next - as the crisis was on a "need-to-know" basis, she unfortunately couldn't fill in all of the blanks for them. She wasn't to answer all of their questions. She didn't even really understand what they could accomplish given the smattering of facts that she had been given clearance to discuss, but she trusted in each and every one of her team to do their job when the time came.  
  
For the sake of clarity, she had sketched out a list - a short one - of the most important details needing to handled . and handled with expediency.  
  
"I want a comprehensive report of all - I repeat: all - of the health records pertaining to any and all current and past chrononauts assigned to the Project BackStep," she announced, turning her attention to the sea of eyes focused on her. "And, yes, before any of you ask, that includes that who died in the center seat of the Sphere. We can't afford to miss anything, people. I want everything you can give me. Medical histories. Vital signs. Pre- and post-flight statistics. I'd like to give you more to go on, but I'm afraid I'd be violated over a dozen National Security Acts if I did. However, I will ask for you to concentrate on any medical abnormalities that you feel might in any way have affected the pilot's ability to maintain operational control of the craft."  
  
"Operational control?" she heard from somewhere in the crowd.  
  
"That's right," she answered. "Primarily, I'm interested in any medical glitch that might've impacted the pilot's ability to land the Sphere in the ."  
  
She couldn't think of any other way to say it.  
  
". any medical glitch that might've impacted the pilot's ability to maintain the Sphere in the . proper temporal continuum."  
  
Suddenly, a roar rose from the group, and she quickly raised her hands into the air, clipboard and all.  
  
"People, please!" she cried. "The clock is ticking on this . situation, and I cannot go into any further details." The group calmed somewhat, and she smiled at her ability to maintain control in the midst of the chaos. "I know what I'm asking sounds . well . strange, but not a single one of you can look me in the eye and confess that Project BackStep remotely sounds normal, can you?"  
  
To her surprise, everyone hushed.  
  
"Medical files are the highest priority," she continued. "Assemble your teams and get through the materials as quickly as possible." Lowering her hands, she said, "Next, I'll want . Dr. Forrestal, you and your team . I'll need you to begin a Level Prime diagnostic on the Sphere."  
  
Forrestal nodded. "Are we preparing for a mission?"  
  
"No," she explained. "I'm only asking that you do a complete review of the Sphere from top to bottom. Doctor, I'm talking about going over every inch of that craft with a microscope. I'm talking about every single wire. I'm talking about every nut and bolt. We have to know - with absolute certainty - that no abnormalities exist within the normal operating parameters of the time craft. Report anything, even something that appears mildly out of the ordinary. And I mean it. Report anything."  
  
The faces surrounding her had grown serious.  
  
"Dr. Singh," she pressed onward, "I'd like you and your team to perform an overview of the last ten missions. From start to finish, mister. I want to know if anything - however obscure, however remote - could possibly have affect the Sphere. Begin with warm-up procedures, and study everything through mission debriefing. Of course, you'll need to get clearance from Director Talmadge for any classified findings from Commander Michelson's missions."  
  
The man raised an eyebrow. "That may prove difficult, doctor."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
He cleared his throat. "Director Talmadge is in the Situation Room with Mr. Ramsey and Commander Michelson as we speak." Sheepishly, he glanced around at his colleagues. "It was my understanding that, at the director's request, he was not to be disturbed with the exception of contact with the National Security Council."  
  
Olga felt the blood rush into her face.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
*****  
  
Ignoring any sense of courtesy or protocol, Olga placed a hand on the bar, shoved open the swinging glass door, and marched into the Situation Room. The three heads at th table turned to her. Storming up to the conference table, she studied the surprised faces of Talmadge, Ramsey, and her beloved, demanding, "You're planning a backstep, aren't you?"  
  
For perhaps the first time in her career, she was shocked when no one said a word.  
  
"I can't believe any of this," she muttered angrily. "I can't believe any of you would be thinking of a BackStep at a time like this!"  
  
His eyes fixed on her, Talmadge succinctly answered in baritone, "We're planning a contingency, Olga."  
  
"You're planning an accident!"  
  
"Now, just a minute ."  
  
"No!" she cried. Angrily, she crossed her arms tightly over the clipboard she held. "Bradley, I refused to believe any of this!"  
  
"Olga," Michelson tried, leaning gently in her direction. "Sweetheart, you have to get a grip on the situation here."  
  
Get a grip?  
  
Before she could scream her reply, he added, "What I meant to say is that you have to stop and think very carefully about the enormity of what's happened. Of all people, certainly you can understand what a position Parker has put us in."  
  
Sniffing, Ramsey bobbed left and right in his leather chair. "Hell, Olga, you have to understand the position he's placed the entire country in." Turning his head, he spoke over his shoulder at her. "You know as well as I do that he's not supposed to be here."  
  
"I'm sorry," she interrupted, "but did you say that he's not supposed to be here?" Sighing, she explained, "Mr. Ramsey, we're talking about a man's life here."  
  
"Not any man I know of," Ramsey told her. "A menace. Parker's a menace. He always was. He always will be, present circumstances included."  
  
"The present circumstances aren't the point, Nathan," she argued coldly.  
  
"Olga," Ramsey raised his voice, "Frank Parker has jeopardized the continuation of the entire BackStep program!" Taking a moment to size up the expressions of his colleagues, he added, "I don't know about you, but I'm not looking for some Sphere jockey to bring an abrupt end to my career. Maybe unemployment suits you just fine, but I'd rather be here - each and every day - knowing that I was doing the greater good by serving my country."  
  
"Mr. Ramsey, thank you for being so kind as to point out the truth of your own ignorance," she spat. "What do you think Frank did? What do you think he was putting his body through every time he sat in that Sphere? Do you think he subjected his body to that kind of trauma . for fun? Do you think he went back in time to save hundreds if not thousands of people . for his own health and safety?" When she realized he wasn't going to debate the issue with her, she shook her head. "Mr. Ramsey, you'll never change. You hated Frank Parker. You always did. You hated him because that psychopath - as you used to call him - did the work that your body never could. Sitting here at this conference table stabbing Mr. Parker in the back is exactly what I expected from you . but I can't say the same for the rest of you." Disgusted, she threw her clipboard on the table. "So? Just what is it we're planning to do, may I ask? Let me guess. Are we going to send Commander Michelson back seven days to hide in the forest, sitting and waiting for Parker's to show up?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, that's precisely what we're discussing," Ramsey chided her.  
  
"And then what?" she demanded.  
  
"Olga," Michelson tried.  
  
With a cold glare, she corrected him. "My name is Dr. Vukavitch, if you don't mind."  
  
Softly, he reached across the table toward his love. "Olga, the BackStep has always been and always will be about taking action. As a team, we test the limits of human endurance righting the wrongs that the rest of the world can never ever possibly know about. Given what's happened, you can't expect us - of all people - to sit back and do nothing."  
  
"No, Channing," she replied. "I do not expect any of you to sit here helpless. I expect you to do your job as we've always done when faced with a crisis. I expect you to ask the right questions to know that what you're about to do - to change the history that you're about to change - to make absolutely certain what we're doing is right and just. Instead, what am I hearing? I'm hearing three men sitting here plotting what? An assassination?"  
  
"Olga!" Talmadge shouted at her. "Calm down! The thought of cold-blooded murder is the farthest from our mind! We're talking about alternatives! For the record, there is no one at this table who underestimates the value that Frank Parker has had on the history of this planet, and there is no one at this table talking about putting a gun to Frank Parker's head." His voice echoed angrily in the chamber. "Frank Parker served this country with distinction. If anyone knows that, it's those of us sitting at this table. And, if any of us have any say in the matter, Frank Parker will do so again."  
  
Ramsey sat forward to argue. Quickly, Michelson kicked him under the table.  
  
"The truth is," Talmadge explained, his tone softening, "the President doesn't know what to make of this . this situation."  
  
"None of us do!" she challenged. "But don't you think that engaging another BackStep in the middle of this . this . this temporal anomaly is nothing more than the act of desperation?"  
  
"As I said, Olga," he tried calmly, "we're only considering a BackStep as a contingency. Please understand. This isn't my idea. It's come down through the proper channels from the NSA. Command has asked for an operational guideline to be put on the table by noon tomorrow. They want a draft of possible dangers by the people best-skilled to provide those answers. They've asked me to draw one up, and I've asked Nate and Channing to help. I swear to you. That's all we're doing at this point." Resting his elbows on the thick table, he said, "You have to understand that men who answer to the President of the United States are always interested in alternatives."  
  
Alternatives, she thought. Isn't that what life was all about? Alternatives. Once, she had loved Frank Parker. She never really told him, but she always hoped that he knew. Now, she found a greater love - a deeper love, one so pure she had never imagined it possible - with Channing Michelson. Was he nothing more than an alternative?  
  
Realizing she had balled her hands into fists, Olga took a deep breath, forcing herself toward calm. Turning from Talmadge, she glanced deep into Channing's eyes. There, she found what she had hoped for, and she knew that what the director had said was the truth.  
  
Slowly, she nodded.  
  
"Are you okay?" Talmadge asked.  
  
Upset with herself, she felt the tug of moisture in the corner of her eye. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of these men.  
  
Certainly not in front of Channing.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bradley," she confessed, relaxing into the chair beside Ramsey. "What I did . I was out of line, sir. I apologize."  
  
He smiled. From the ashtray before him, he pulled up one of his signature cigars. "Nonsense. You know very well that there's no need for any apology, Olga. No honor among thieves, and no apologies among friends." He nodded at her. "I didn't mean for you to feel excluded from this conversation. Given your unique history with Frank ."  
  
He couldn't find the words. He blinked and tried, "You know that you've always been the voice of our collective conscience. That's why I wouldn't have any other doctor as part of this team. As I said, I didn't mean to exlude you, . well . I think you can understand why I chose the course of action that I did."  
  
She felt her heart pounding in her chest, and she heard it thumping in her ears. She hoped no one else could hear it. Especially Channing.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Talmadge rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. "Then I think that's all for now. A very tired Frank Parker is going to wake up in our Temporal Containment Facility in C Complex within a matter of hours." Pointing at her, he continued. "Olga, I want you ready for a full medical debrief, but I don't want you going in."  
  
She started to object, but he held up a palm.  
  
"Absolutely not," he ordered. "I know you're the most qualified. But this isn't an issue of qualification."  
  
"But, sir," she tried.  
  
"You heard me, Olga," he stressed every syllable. "You're the very best we have, but there isn't any room for error on this. Emotions tend to cloud the issue, and we were all a bit emotional around Frank." He poked a friendly finger into Ramsey's ribs. "Needless to say, there's a very narrow margin for error with any BackStep Operations, and I'd like all of us to approach this situation with the same dedication. I think we can all agreed that what we're facing this time . well . let's just say that it gives new meaning to the word 'unique.'"  
  
Waving his hand at her, he added, "Send Forrestal. We're only looking at a routine physical, so far as we know. Plus, I understand this technician Frank is flying in with - the one who treated him in the field - is absolutely top notch. She comes with high marks for the Centers for Disease Control. I'll want you to interface with her."  
  
Talmadge sensed her displeasure with her expression.  
  
"Olga, you'll have your chance to debrief him, but let's not put the cart before the horse, eh?"  
  
Resigning herself, she closed her eyes. Feeling the kiss of moisture, she quickly brought her hand up and scratched as if to cover any show of emotion.  
  
"Yes, sir," she sighed.  
  
"Besides," Talmadge tried, "given the unexplainable nature of what we're facing, we don't even know that this man is Frank Parker."  
  
The look in Ramsey's and Olga's eyes told him he was dead wrong.  
  
Halfheartedly, he concluded, "Forget I said that."  
  
END of Chapter 10 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11  
  
Six Days, Nineteen Hours, Twenty Minutes  
  
** Just outside Washington ** ** EverRest Motor Lodge **  
  
"What can I do for you?"  
  
DeMarco glanced up from his wallet at the elderly gentleman behind the counter. The man wore the lines on his face like badges of honor granted to him by his country, and, without so much as hearing another word, DeMarco knew that he didn't like his host.  
  
Was it the man, or was it the country? Was it the wisdom that came with age, or was it the revelry that came with a nation's revolution? Was it this simpleton, or was it the world's last remaining superpower? He stopped trying to figure out the answer to question that no longer needed asking, and, instead, he reached inside his trench coat for his wallet.  
  
"Good evening," he tried, masquerading his voice in a perfect American accent. Quickly, he suppressed the desire to suddenly lash out across the space dividing them, to fix his fingers into a fleshy dagger, and drive the human spike through the old fellow's right eye and into the man's brain. "I'd like a room."  
  
Easily, the man reached down and slid a white paper slip in front of DeMarco. "Welcome to the EverRest," he offered. "I'll need you to fill out this form, and I'll need to see some identification."  
  
"Yes," DeMarco agreed. "Thank you. I know the drill."  
  
When he looked up, he realized that he had ignited the elder's ire.  
  
"I'm sorry," DeMarco offered. "It's late, and I've had a very long day."  
  
Slowly, dismissively, the old man nodded. "Just fly into Washington, did you?"  
  
"Train, actually."  
  
"Oh," the man said. "That explains the attitude."  
  
"Yes."  
  
DeMarco took the ballpoint pen and, with concentrated precision, began filling out the form in handwriting markedly different from his own. As he knew he must. As he had long practiced.  
  
"As you can guess," he spoke casually as he wrote, "the ride was more than a bit bumpy."  
  
The old man turned toward his hotel supplies. He reached for a room card, asking, "Would you like a single bed, or do you prefer a double?"  
  
"A single," DeMarco answered. "That will be just fine."  
  
"Just yourself?"  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"Smoking or non-smoking?"  
  
With a hint of derision, DeMarco spat, "Is there still a choice in this country?"  
  
Again, he realized he had lost his customary calm, and he glanced up. The gentleman was studying the stranger now with a fixed expression.  
  
"Again, I must apologize," DeMarco said. "It's just . well . I happen to work for the tobacco industry." He smiled. "I'm meeting next week with several representatives in Congress, and . I'm sure you can understand . I'm a bit uneasy."  
  
Slowly, the old fellow smiled. "I guess it'll be smoking."  
  
Placing his free hand on his chest, DeMarco added, "My boss would have more than his share of my hide if I chose otherwise."  
  
"Big business means big business."  
  
"That it does."  
  
DeMarco finished with the room registration card - he had listed one of his aliases, Mr. Walter Chamberlain - and set the pen down on the counter.  
  
"We've really received bad ink in the press," he tried nonchalantly.  
  
Patting his shirt pocket that held a packet of Pendley Cigarettes, the old man said, "You're not telling me anything that I don't know."  
  
"Thanks for supporting the industry."  
  
Smirking, the man added, "Yeah, I only buy American."  
  
"What's your name, sir?"  
  
"Carlson," the man said. "Danny Carlson."  
  
Extending a warm hand, DeMarco shook firmly, insuring all efforts to defuse any rough edges. Danny Carlson would have to die, but not for several days. Between now and his death, the terrorist couldn't afford any unforeseen and unfortunate altercations. Carlson - and the beautiful woman from the airplane - would serve as tests to secure his credibility for as long as he needed.  
  
Then he'd kill them as swiftly and efficiently as his talent would allow.  
  
"Thank you, Danny."  
  
*****  
  
The room smelled of freshly cleaned carpeting as DeMarco stepped in. Easily, he closed the door behind him, walked to the bed, and laid his luggage on the king-sized bed. The bedspread was littered in the pattern of fully bloomed roses, and the pillows were wrapped in rose-colored pillowcases. The walls were simple - standard pearly white - with two patriotic-themed portraits - one featured the thirteen-starred Flag of the Colonial States and another with the colorful fireworks blotting a Fourth of July skyline. The television - black and silent - hung from a downward arch attached to the ceiling, and the heavy oak dresser stood with the bottom drawer slightly open, as if beckoning for someone to deposit clothes inside.  
  
He walked to the bathroom and, reaching behind the red-white-and-blue shower curtain, he turned on the shower. Immediately, a mist of warm air filled his nostrils, invigorating his senses. He had been partially truthful with Danny Carlson: it had been a long, exhausting day, and tomorrow would be the same . as would the next . and the one following that . all the way up until the afternoon of his mission. But there would be time enough tomorrow to dwell on those thoughts.  
  
Slipping out of his trench coat, he tossed the coat on to the bathroom counter. He stripped from his suit - it would have to be destroyed, after all - and stepped naked under the scalding stream of hot water. Ignoring the heat, he closed his eyes and allowed for the water to do its work, to wash over every inch of his body, to ignite his nerve endings sending impulses to his brain. As of late, the pain was all that made him feel alive. He made his heart pump and his blood flow through his veins. It excited him as much as it fatigued him. It gave him hope as much as it made hope fade from his mind. But he needed the pain. He couldn't feel himself without it. He couldn't know his future without his present, and he refused to accept his destiny without living in the moment. His pain threshold was very high, the scientists had told him after their several years of ridiculous testing - verifying a fact he knew all too well - and his threshold would have to remain high if he were to be successful. Higher, he hoped. The next few days, if he served any purpose, it would be to push his body to the physical limits of pain, hoping that - when the end came - his senses would be immune to any such impulse.  
  
In fact, Richard DeMarco hoped he never felt a thing.  
  
Ever.  
  
END of Chapter 11 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12  
  
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Fifty Minutes  
  
. under the control of his grasp on the joystick, Frank Parker tried to secure the Sphere's dancing guidance systems. His fingers white-knuckled under his gloves, burning, crying out in their own pain, he clenched his teeth tighter and tighter. He bucked to and fro, left and right, held loosely into the pilot's chair by crisscrossing safety belts. He was thrown forward, the air forced out of his lungs as his chest ran into the belts, and bursts of brilliant, violent white light flashed, interrupting his view of Chronometer, but now - this far along in the BackStep - he couldn't look away.  
  
. lingering inside that white light, comfortably out-of-reach but familiar, he saw faces. Familiar. Troubled. Welcoming faces.  
  
. he saw Bradley Talmadge. He saw the man's eyes wizened by years of service to his country, locking behind them secrets entrusted only to the nation's bravest souls. Bradley was speaking, and Parker watched as the man's lips moved with controlled precision. Parker couldn't make out what the director was saying, though he tried, and he wasn't certain that any of it was meant for him anyway. All he knew was that - by the look in Talmadge's eyes - something had gone terribly wrong.  
  
. he saw Craig Donovan. He was running. Where was he going? Parker couldn't tell. He was running, fast, legs pumping, arms diving, and he held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand. Donovan gripped the weapon as if holding on for dear life. His fingers flinched for a moment as he stopped running. He brought the pistol up to shoulder height, and he fired .  
  
.he saw Olga.  
  
. precious Olga.  
  
. she was crying. Her hands were hard on her face, trying to hold back the tears for anyone else to see, but it was no use. The tears rolled freely down her face and onto her neck. He watched as her body convulsed, wracked with emotion, and then he saw several pairs of hands reaching out to catch her as she slowly dipped toward the floor. They steadied her, righted her, and, slowly, she nodded. She was okay, she was telling them. She was okay.  
  
. finally, she pulled her hands away from her face, and Parker studied her watery, bloodshot eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, her bottom lip quivering slightly. Then, she spoke, and, this time, he could tell undeniably what she was saying.  
  
."Parker ."  
  
***  
  
"Mr. Parker?"  
  
Startled, he opened his eyes.  
  
"Mr. Parker?"  
  
He shook his head, trying to clear the mental fog, and then he remembered freely that he had been drugged back at the arrival site. He recalled the hiss of gas flooding the cylinder, and - for a moment - he grew angry. None of this made any sense. Nothing. Not the arrival. Not his reception. Not this . reaction. His world - as it had been so many times previously in his travels through time - has once again - yet again - inevitably - been turned upside down and inside out.  
  
'Again,' he thought to himself. 'How can this keep happening to me again?'  
  
Reaching up, he placed his hands on the cold glass. Beyond his grasp was that face. Her face.  
  
The woman. The one from the arrival.  
  
What was her name?  
  
Had she even told him?  
  
"Mr. Parker?"  
  
"Yes," he said clearly. He rumbled his throat as he shook his head again. "I'm awake. I'm awake."  
  
She smiled down at him, her expression almost maternal. "How are you feeling?"  
  
He rapping his knuckles hard against the thick plate. "More than a little like a goldfish."  
  
"I'm sorry about that," she said, "but, given the circumstances, it couldn't be avoided."  
  
"What couldn't be avoided?"  
  
"Protocols," she continued. "We have protocols - well, now we do - for dealing with such contingencies."  
  
"Yes," he agreed.  
  
What was it she had said? Back at the arrival site? He lay in the tube, and she said .  
  
"Temporal contamination?"  
  
She nodded. "That's right."  
  
Suddenly, he realized that she was no longer in the rubberized containment suit, and he decided that he must've been deemed 'an acceptable risk' so long as he was kept under glass. His mind still reeling and rolling - bobbing like a buoy on rough surf - he shook his head again violently.  
  
"Wow," he muttered.  
  
"Feels good, eh?"  
  
"Talk about a hangover," he said. "The last woman responsible for getting me this hammered at least gave birth to my son. I feel like I owe you dinner and a movie." His eyes focused, and he looked up at her smiling face. "What was that you gave me? Some kind of super-Demerol?"  
  
"I'm afraid that's classified, Mr. Parker."  
  
"Didn't you check my wallet?" he asked. "I think I have the clearance, sweetheart."  
  
Tilting her head, she pursed her lips. She lost herself in thought for a few moments, and finally she confessed, "It's complicated, Mr. Parker. Yes, you have clearance for the kind of work that you do . but I'm afraid I'd be violating more than one lifetime's worth of federally required oaths of secrecy if I told you the kind of work that I do for the NSA."  
  
"I don't doubt it," he agreed, moving around slowly in his tube, feeling for any means of escape. "But . you can tell me that we're both on the same side . right?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Don't call me, sir," he stated flatly. "I've never liked it. Ask anybody."  
  
"Whatever you say, Mr. Parker."  
  
"And call me Frank."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"My name," he told her. "You know who I am. Call me Frank. Now, if it won't cause you to violate any oaths you've taken, would you be so kind as to tell me who you are?"  
  
Placing her palm on the glass, she explained, "I'm Nina Welles. I'm a doctor with Langley. I train field agents."  
  
He reached up and pressed his palm against the glass where hers lay. "Train them to do what?"  
  
"Sorry," she said. "That'd be another violation."  
  
"Great," he spat. "Look, Nina, if it isn't too much trouble, could I get you to open this thing up and let me out of here? I'm starting to feel more than a little claustrophic."  
  
Slyly, she shook her head. "You're going to have to do better than that, Frank."  
  
"Would it help if I said 'please'?"  
  
Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head again. "I don't think so."  
  
"There has to be some way out."  
  
"You'll be out soon enough," she admitted, glancing down at the watch on her wrist. Squinting, Parker saw its blinking face, but he couldn't make out the time. "We're on approach to your base of operations in Nevada."  
  
He nodded at her. "Did you tell them that I was coming?"  
  
"They're well aware of our situation."  
  
Confusing, befuddled, Parker studied the inside of the glass tube with his eyes and fingertips. "I wish I could say the same."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Nothing," he replied.  
  
"Frank, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you back under for a while."  
  
Defensively, he held up his hands, pressing his splayed fingers to the cold surface. "No!" he shouted. "No more of the happy place! Please! I'm begging you! My head feels like the football after the field goal attempt bounced off the uprights."  
  
"I don't have any choice," she confessed, and he heard the sincerity in her voice. She really didn't want to do it - it was all a matter of following orders, and Frank Parker knew that responsibility all too well. "I promise you that this dosage will be much smaller. Director Talmadge needs you awake to undergo the debrief."  
  
"Please," he tried, "I'll be good. Let me just lay here. I'll close my eyes and play like I'm asleep. Nobody has to know but the two of us."  
  
"That won't do."  
  
"I promise! I'll give it my best! No one has to know! Nina, just give me a chance!"  
  
He heard the hiss of gas released inside the chamber, and, suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the flashes of light again. He saw the faces of his friends - the faces of his colleagues, his partners, his pals - and he knew that time travel was playing tricks with his mind again. He saw Olga. He saw her crying, and, for a change, he wanted to sleep.  
  
"I'm sorry, Frank," and he knew by the sound of her voice that she truly was. If Dr. Welles was anything, she was honest. He liked that in a woman, and he hoped that she would always be honest with him.  
  
"I'm really very sorry."  
  
End of Chapter 12 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13  
  
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Thirteen minutes  
  
Despite all of the miracles he witnessed throughout his tenure as Director of Operations for Project BackStep, Bradley Talmadge didn't know what to think.  
  
He had arrived at work early this morning, much earlier than usual. Yesterday, the NSA had provided him with an uncharacteristic wealth of intelligence briefings, and he wanted to review all of them. It seemed that terrorist activity - much to his dismay - was on the rise. "Call it 'job security,'" he remembered Parker once cajoling him. Setting aside all of the possible good he and his team could ever do, Talmadge would gladly give up BackStep if it meant living in a world free from terror. The latest briefs were only so much of the same: insurgent activity in Iraq, several hinted high level assassinations against United States' interests abroad, etc. A drug lord - Marachez? - ran loose in Cuba with hopes of securing an international distributor for 'Sanity,' the newest designer drug. A splinter faction of a militia group calling themselves the 'Blood Berets' were rumored to be plotting the release of a major [unnamed] biochemical agent into Huston, Texas's water supply if the U.S. government didn't sever all ties with Israel. A Syrian national was apparently responsible for the beating death of a U.S. senator's daughter. Talmadge shook his head in disgust, taking only a moment to wonder what the world - and how - had become.  
  
In the blink of an eye, all of his fears - all of the Security briefings about all of the most dangerous events in the world's possible near future - were shelved as, now, one man was unexpectedly here.  
  
Frank Parker.  
  
Of course, Talmadge knew that working with Project BackStep almost guaranteed not only re-inventing the wheel every day but also remembering where to spin it. He had long ago grown used to going back to the drawing board with each and every mission. The unpredictability of time travel - and the various reasons behind it - was an occupational hazard he had grown accustomed to appreciating. It was almost as if each day posed a new challenge - one he had no probable means to foretell - and the endless string of challenges drove him, as director, to be a better leader than the one he was the day before.  
  
But . Frank Parker? Here? Now?  
  
What would it all mean?  
  
He turned his security vehicle down a narrow alleyway and pulled to a stop in front of a massive steel door with visible latching mechanisms - twelve- inch thick titanium rods - circling the door. He stood and walked toward the gleaming wall, approaching the guardpost. Immediately, an armed soldier stood, saluting. "Sir!" the clean-shaven man barked.  
  
Talmadge smiled. "At ease, Adams," he cautioned. "I know that this facility is on the highest alert status possible, but you're about to throw your back out."  
  
"Sir," the soldier replied more softly. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Has he arrived?"  
  
"The captive has been taken inside, sir."  
  
"Captive?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Talmadge considered the man. The soldier stared straight ahead, unflinching in his posture and protocol.  
  
"Did you get a look at him, Adams?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the man replied. "The captive -"  
  
". has a name, Adams," the director interrupted.  
  
Talmadge watched as the soldier's throat bobbed as the man swallowed - a minor indication of the nervousness so deftly captured inside.  
  
"Sir, I watched as Mr. Parker was taken inside Containment."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"And what did you see?"  
  
Confused, the soldier relaxed a bit. "Director, I already told you. I saw him. He was in one of the isolation tubes."  
  
"Yes, I know what you saw, Adams," Talmadge tried softly. "But I want to know what you think of what you saw."  
  
"Begging the director's pardon-"  
  
"You can speak freely, Adams," Talmadge offered. "I'm only asking your opinion."  
  
The guard studied the director's face for a moment. After a pause, he finally said, "Sir, it looked like Parker. If I didn't know any better, then I would have to swear on my oath as an officer in this man's Army that he was Parker."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Without a doubt, sir."  
  
Cracking a sly smile, Talmadge offered up his thumb for the guard's keypad. "Thank you, Adams." He pressed his thumb to the dark plate. Seconds later, the plate turned a bright green, and Talmadge heard the titanium bars unlatching, clacking loudly away from the sealed entrance. "My father always told me to trust in the opinion of enlisted men."  
  
The latches cleared, the massive door swung upward, and Talmadge turned to enter the sealed facility.  
  
"Sir?" Adams replied as the director walked away. "Your father was a smart man."  
  
*****  
  
Inside, Talmadge again thumbed an identification plate - as per facility protocol - and waited for the massive door to close behind him. Once it did, once he heard the tumblers lock into place, he walked down the short, white hallway and turned into the first open doorway.  
  
"Dr. Welles?"  
  
Arms crossed, she glanced away from the wall of monitors and into the eyes of Bradley Talmadge.  
  
"Director," she said.  
  
"I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized.  
  
Relaxing, she ran one hand through her disheveled hair. "Given the circumstances, I'm not sure that's possible, sir."  
  
"Drop the formalities, Nina," Talmadge replied. "We're all under a lot of pressure right now."  
  
Smiling, she nodded. "Thank you, Bradley. I'm really . well . I'm really not up to professional courtesy at the moment."  
  
Ignoring the various screens, he stepped up to her and took a chair, gesturing for her to do the same. Easily, she sat down opposite the older man, her entire body finally free of the weight she had sensed since her arrival. He noticed her fatigue, and he held up a hand.  
  
"Before I begin, let me offer you a few moments to compose your thoughts, if you need them," he said. "Let's face it: we've dealt with temporal anomalies before, but I think you'll agree that we've never encountered anything of this . variety."  
  
Her eyes fixed on him, she smirked. "I think you just made the understatement of next century, Bradley." Casually, she waved a hand back at him. "No. I'm fine. Really. A bit of jet lag. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure . once we can put all of this behind us."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She smiled. "Don't mention it."  
  
Still ignoring the monitors, he asked her, "Then, in your own words, tell me what it is you think we're dealing with here."  
  
He read her expression, and he knew she wasn't prepared to make much more than an educated guess. "It could be some sort of . I don't know . temporal inversion? Perhaps something like a time travel on top of another time travel within too close a parameter having ripped the fabric of reality and . well . honestly, Bradley, I just don't know. That's not my specialty." She closed her eyes tightly for a moment. "Ballard was the ubermensch, if you don't mind my saying. Mentnor, too. As for Ballard . well . I don't know what he'd have to say on the subject. Mentnor? He'd probably wax on about the ethics over the inevitability of our inducing a temporal paradox or some other such pet theory of his . no insult intended." She opened her eyes and nodded at the director. "You know I hold both of their opinions in the highest regard. Sure, I might not always agree with them, but I never discount the value they brought to the project."  
  
Talmadge nodded back at her. "Of course," he agreed, "but those are other souls from another time, another place . as is so much of the work that we do around here." He held up his hands to his left. "Ballard believed in the hard science. He believed in the numbers. He did the math. Everything had an absolute value, and that value could be calculated to the nth degree." Slowly, he moved his hands over to his right. "Mentnor, on the other hand, often spent time talking about the dangers, the possibilities of what we do. He wasn't as interested in the numbers - he understood as well as any of us how data figured into Ballard's equations - but he appreciated the human element on a vastly more complex level." He dropped his hands to his lap. "As they say, reality is probably somewhere in between."  
  
Smartly, she eyed the director. "What do you think?"  
  
"Me?" He sighed. "I'm the one tasked with making the decisions. Thankfully, I have people like you providing me with good information. It's your opinion that's more important right now."  
  
Slowly, she nodded.  
  
"Then I think you need to speak to him."  
  
Talmadge felt a chill. He knew that - eventually - he would have to speak with the chrononaut. That wasn't chance. That was required. He hadn't expected it so soon. In fact, he hadn't even thought about it. He knew that Frank Parker would be in the Containment Center. He knew that Parker would be in his own chamber only yards away. He knew that, were he so inclined, he could look up at the monitors and stare at his old friend's face . but Talmadge wasn't ready for it.  
  
"Is it him?" he asked.  
  
Nina tilted her head back, lost in thought for several moments. "There's really only one person who knows the answer to that."  
  
"And you think that person is me?"  
  
"No," she replied quickly. "I think you're avoiding looking that person in the eye, Bradley."  
  
The man remained silent.  
  
"Bradley," she whispered, "what happened in the past no longer matters."  
  
"Nina, please-"  
  
"Bradley," she said louder, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his knee, "no. I can't. I won't sit here and allow you to second guess decisions made in the line of duty. Whatever happened has longer happened."  
  
"But it did," Talmadge insisted.  
  
"If that were the case," she challenged, "then tell me what Frank Parker is doing lying on the bed in isolation."  
  
He didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.  
  
"Listen to me, Bradley," she said firmly. "Whatever happened didn't happen. What we need to deal with is the present, and the present is going to get much messier unless you go in there and find out for yourself just who it is we're holding under lock and key."  
  
Talmadge stared into her eyes. He knew she was right. He knew there was only one person's opinion that mattered. In his dealings with the NSA, Bradley knew how much the Committee respected his judgment. Now, he couldn't second guess his abilities as a leader, as a commander of people who put their lives on the line with every mission. Now, he had to be assertive.  
  
"If you don't, Bradley," she hinted, a heavy weight in her voice, "you know what they'll have scientists do to him." She tightened her grip on his knee. "That man in there needs you. This project needs you. As a matter of fact, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that, right now, every single person alive on the face of God's green Earth needs you more than they ever have and, quite possibly, more than they ever will."  
  
Politely, he smiled.  
  
"I appreciate the pep talk, Nina."  
  
Sitting back in her chair, she laughed. "You never needed me for a pep talk, Bradley."  
  
"No," he agreed, "but, every now and then, it helps to have a colleague put time travel in perspective." He frowned. "I've missed that since Ballard's death," he admitted, "and I think you're the first person to ever hear me say that."  
  
"What about Mentnor?"  
  
Talmadge grimaced. "The accident was my fault, Nina. Isaac Mentnor left the project because he lost faith in me, not in the work we do."  
  
"The work we do needs Isaac Mentnor," she added.  
  
"Right."  
  
Slowly, the director rose. For the first time, he turned to the monitors. All of the screens showed Frank Parker, asleep, from a variety of angles.  
  
"How deep is his sleep?"  
  
"It's Parker," she slipped. "One rap on the glass, and he'll be awake."  
  
"Right."  
  
Nervously, Talmadge tapped his foot on the floor.  
  
"Nina," he began, "see what you can do about getting me an update on when Frank's sphere will arrive at the facility. Who knows? It might provide more answers than Sleeping Beauty in there." He shrugged. "I want our best men and women to go over every inch of that sphere with a fine tooth comb."  
  
"You have only the best people in this business, sir."  
  
"Yes," he agreed.  
  
As he turned and activated the automatic sliding door into the Containment's inner rooms, he added, "And see what you can do about getting Isaac Mentnor on the phone. The last I hard, he was somewhere out East. Massachusetts, I believe. I heard he was lecturing with some regularity at MIT." With a smile, he finished, "I think I'd like the opinion of an old friend about this affair."  
  
END of Chapter 13 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14  
  
Six Days, Seventeen hours, Forty-one minutes  
  
"Olga, wait!"  
  
She stopped in her tracks as Channing came running up the hallway behind her. Then, just as quickly, she took up her stride again, ever more diligently.  
  
"Can you please wait a minute?"  
  
She shook her head. "I can't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I'm on my way to Field Operations," she explained, her tone icy. "We all have our jobs to do, Channing, and Bradley has asked me to take point on the site debriefings."  
  
"Site debriefings?" he repeated, sounding incredulous. "What site debriefings? What are you talking about?"  
  
Frustrated, she stopped in the hallway and turned to him. "As you know, Mr. Parker landed in close proximity to a roadside café. He interacted with an older gentleman on the café's porch. Bradley believes that others - people eating in the restaurant - probably witnessed Mr. Parker's arrival, so a Field Ops Team is being sent there. He's asked me to head up that operation." Trying to calm her nerves, she inhaled deeply. "There's a strict quarantine procedure in place for these situations, Channing. You know the drill. Those people might've been temporally contaminated, and the Committee will be expecting answers."  
  
"But you're not even authorized for field service!" Channing argued. "How can Bradley send you out there without the proper training?"  
  
Her irritation growing, she stepped up to him and breathed hot, angry air in his face. "Bradley is doing his best to look out for every member of this team, Channing. Bradley is not looking to stick anyone in the back."  
  
"That's 'stab,'" he corrected.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Stab anyone in the back," he repeated. "And whose back did I stab?"  
  
Narrowing her eyes at him, she barked, "You know very well what you did. You and Nathan and Bradley. You were all talking about how to eliminate this situation, how to sweep this entire affair under the carpet!"  
  
"Rug," he corrected.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"Yes," she agreed. "I think I will never mind about it."  
  
Curtly, she turned on her heels and stormed down the hallway.  
  
Standing his ground, Channing cried, "Olga, we weren't trying anything of the sort!"  
  
Over her shoulder, she snapped, "You should've had me in that meeting, Channing!"  
  
"You know why we couldn't."  
  
"Couldn't?"  
  
Again, she stopped. Turning her head back to glare at him, she bit her lip to keep from saying what she wanted.  
  
"We couldn't, Olga," he said more softly this time. "Every one of us knew what you went through when . well . you know."  
  
With steely eyes, she demanded, "Why don't you refresh me?"  
  
"Olga, we were thinking of you."  
  
With that, she shook her head. "No, you weren't, Channing. You were thinking of you. You were thinking of Ramsey. You were thinking of the project. You were thinking of everything except me." Pointing, she added, "If you were thinking of me, then you would've had Bradley bring me into that meeting."  
  
He held up his hands in a show of surrender. "I swear, sweetheart. If there was anyone at that table thinking about you, it was me."  
  
"And what about Frank?"  
  
"What about Frank?"  
  
"Who was thinking about him?"  
  
Channing shrugged. "At this point, Olga, we don't even know if that is Frank."  
  
Succinctly, she nodded back at him. "Then I guess I know what the point of my serving Field Ops is."  
  
Once more, she started down the hallway.  
  
"You won't find what you're looking for out there, Olga," she heard from over her shoulder.  
  
She didn't reply. She couldn't. She was incensed. Infuriated. She knew as much as Channing was right to have acted with Bradley and Nathan, he was wrong to have violated a trust she shared with him. 'Was that love?' she wondered. 'Or was it plain male jealousy?'  
  
When she didn't answer, Channing added, "Everything you'll ever need, sweetheart, you have right here with me."  
  
END of Chapter 14 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15  
  
Six Days, Fourteen hours, Ten minutes  
  
Slowly, Frank Parker opened his eyes. The light poured in, and he stared up at the unblemished white ceiling. The lighting was recessed, he noticed, and, making a quick guess, he knew he was in some kind of holding cell. 'Having spent too many days and nights in the funny farm does that to you,' he thought of his special gift. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he following the expanse of ceiling away from him until he found the wall. There, he tracked the seam over his head until he came to a thick pane of glass. Rolling over, he looking down the glass until he saw .  
  
"Bradley!"  
  
With the exuberance of a child, Parker leapt from the mattress and ran into the protective glass wall.  
  
"Easy, Frank," the director said, smiling. "Take it easy. We just got you back. There's no sense in hurting yourself already."  
  
"I can't take it easy," the chrononaut muttered, relaxing as he suddenly began to take in his surroundings. "There's too much ." He let his words trail off as he studied his cell. The four walls were broken only at the back where an obvious steel door - heavily reinforced - kept him inside. The walls were covered with pure blank white. He found the room offered a single bed - outfitted with gray sheets, a military-issue blanket, and a single pillow with no pillowcase.  
  
'Of course not,' he reasoned. 'Why, a thinking maniac could strangle himself with that.'  
  
"Bradley, what's going on?"  
  
The director sat in a chair on the far side of the glass wall.  
  
"I need you to relax, Frank."  
  
"I'll relax ."  
  
Again, he trailed off. Now wasn't the time to lose his infamous temper. Now was the time for control. Something was amiss. Something was terribly amiss . or he wouldn't be here.  
  
"I'm sorry," Parker said.  
  
"It's all right, Frank."  
  
"Where am I?"  
  
"Don't you know?"  
  
He lowered his eyes at the senior officer. "Bradley, I think you know me well enough to know that if I knew wherever the hell I was I wouldn't be asking."  
  
At that, the director smirked, an expression Parker had long grown comfortable with.  
  
"You're in Containment," the older man confessed.  
  
"Containment?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What's Containment?" Parker asked quizzically.  
  
Talmadge showed a twinkle in his eye. "You really don't know, do you?"  
  
Parker sighed. "I think I've already answered that question."  
  
The two men stayed in the respective places, studying one another's expressions. Talmadge always had an undercurrent of ambitious mirth to him - a side that Parker long admired. Now, the director appeared almost bereft of any emotion that Frank could decipher.  
  
"Okay, okay, okay," Parker conceded. "I give up. You win."  
  
"The Frank Parker I knew would've have surrendered so easily."  
  
"Knew," the chrononaut repeated. "The Frank Parker . you knew?"  
  
Talmadge didn't answer.  
  
"Let's start over at the beginning, Bradley."  
  
Reaching out, Parker grabbed the back of the chair and dragged the steel legs squeaking with protest across the floor.  
  
With a smile, he asked, "Does that seem like the old Frank Parker?"  
  
Talmadge returned the smile. "It does."  
  
Parker nodded. "Thank you."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For believing me."  
  
"I didn't say I believe you, Frank."  
  
"You didn't say you didn't."  
  
"No," the director agreed. "I didn't do that either. As a matter of fact, I don't know what to think. And if you know me as well as I believe you do, then you'll understand that this situation - being at the crossroads without a clear choice of which road to choose - well, that's the place I like being least."  
  
Quickly, Parker turned the chair around, sitting down, and leaned his elbows on the back. He relaxed, letting his shoulders slump, and he set his chin on his forearm.  
  
"Then let's start over," he finally said. "My name's Parker. Frank Parker."  
  
"Bradley Talmadge."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Bradley."  
  
"Likewise."  
  
"Why is it that I'm in a cage?"  
  
"A cage?" Talmadge gestured at the glass wall. "Is that all you think this is?"  
  
"It's a trap?"  
  
The director grimaced. "If you are Frank Parker, then you would know that you're in a lockdown facility. This is Containment. It's standard."  
  
"Standard?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
Parker pointed with his closest thumb. "This isn't standard. At least, it isn't where I come from."  
  
"And that's the puzzle," Talmadge agreed.  
  
"So why don't we solve it?"  
  
"We?"  
  
"Yes," Parker answered. "Why don't we solve it together?"  
  
"We will. In time."  
  
"Bradley, this is BackStep. The one constant of the work we do is that - even though we can travel through it - time is luxury we don't have."  
  
"That's right, Frank," Talmadge nodded. "You phoned in a conundrum."  
  
"I did."  
  
"And what is your mission?"  
  
Parker almost spoke, but he stopped. If the man sitting across from him protected by the wall of glass wasn't the Director of Operations he had come to know, then there were probabilities - real and frightening and mind- blowing probabilities - that sharing any knowledge of future events might disrupt a timeline that never took place in this reality.  
  
"I'm not home," he finally spat.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean . in my world the base doesn't have any Containment facility."  
  
"Then you aren't Frank Parker."  
  
"And you aren't Bradley Talmadge."  
  
"Only one of those statements can be true, my friend," the director warned.  
  
"Or both of them could be false," Parker tried.  
  
Again, they stared at one another.  
  
"How long have I been asleep?" the chrononaut asked.  
  
"A few hours," Talmadge answered.  
  
"And you watched me?"  
  
"I hope you don't mind."  
  
"No," Parker said. "Not at all. It's what Bradley would've done, and you're doing exactly what Bradley would've done. You need to hold up your end of the charade. I promise I'll do my part to hold up my end."  
  
Slowly, the director shook his head. "It doesn't need to be this way, Frank."  
  
He rose from his chair. "I think it does."  
  
"It doesn't," Talmadge tried, rising from his seat as well. He approached the glass. "All you need to do is tell me where you're from, and, working together, we can end this ."  
  
"End what?" Parker shouted, throwing his arms wide. "End what, Bradley? What is there to end? What? The fact that I don't believe it's you, or the fact that you don't believe it's me?"  
  
"You can't be Frank Parker!" the director insisted.  
  
"Oh, no? I'm wearing Frank Parker's clothes. I have Frank Parker's memory. I piloted Frank Parker's sphere back from the future on a mission to ."  
  
Decisively, he stopped in mid-sentence.  
  
"You were saying?"  
  
"Nothing that I care to finish."  
  
Talmadge turned red in the face. "Frank, stop playing ."  
  
"Frank? Did you just call me Frank? But how can that be? You can't call me that! After all, Frank isn't who I am! You said so yourself!"  
  
"What would you like me to call you?"  
  
"Well, it certainly can't be Frank, now can it?" Parker challenged, his hands planted firmly on his hips. The anger was boiling in him now, and he wanted to strike out. He wanted to slam his body into the glass, but he knew it would be for naught. It would only please this . this . director, and Parker wasn't about to do that. "You don't think I'm him . Frank Parker . so that won't do."  
  
"Then I'll ask you again . what would you have me call you?"  
  
Parker sniffed. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders, he let slip a short chuckle.  
  
"Why don't you . why don't you call me . Mr. Anderson?"  
  
END of Chapter 15 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16  
  
Six Days, Twelve Hours  
  
Before dawn, Richard DeMarco opened his eyes and stared up at the hotel room's tiled ceiling. The cratered surface was dirty, smudged with dusty bruises and dangling cobwebs. Studying them, he wondered when the last time the hotel's cleaning crew had truly attempted to prepare this room - his room for the time being - to honest, acceptable living standards. It certainly wouldn't take any effort to scrap a broom along the tiles - tiles that had undoubtedly hung over greedy American businessmen, tired tourists too poor to afford a room within the District of Columbia, and prostitutes performing for senators and congressmen far enough out of the Capital so as not to be caught by their trophy brides. DeMarco guessed that the housekeepers - much like all of the American breed - were lazy. They were inept. They were ignorant. They were as classless as he had been raised to believe them to be. Unquestionably, these 'servants' showed their classlessness - their lack of pride and duty - in their work. Back home, in his native Iraq, his mother - may she rest in peace - would've been morally ashamed to offer such a disgusting room to any guest, let alone an enemy of the state. 'Even villains deserve the sanctity of cleanliness,' she often told him, and hers - of all the people he had trained and served with - were lessons he took to heart and soul. They were timeless. They were universal truths. In fact, he believed that most of her sermons - even those that drew his blood - made him the 'patriot' he was today.  
  
Quickly, he rose, inhaling a gulp of stale air. Closed his eyes, he allowed the momentary sensation of vertigo to pass, to lilt through his mind and body, and then he opened his eyes wide, smiling. The flowered curtains were slightly drawn, and, through the gap, he saw the incessant twinkling of street lamps lining the hotel's parking lot and leading into the street. In the distance, above the skyline of rising trees and buildings, he made out the shadow of sunlight cast across the early morning sky.  
  
"It is time," he said.  
  
He had much to do. The clock was ticking away on this, his first day in the United States, his first chance to make a lasting impression on those who truly mattered, those who would surely be looking for him once they learned of his entrance. With every passing second the chance to show his true patriotism was delayed, and, now that he was finally on American soil, he would begin.  
  
"There is so much to do," he muttered and rose, naked, from the bed.  
  
*****  
  
He showered, standing under the stream. He let the hot water envelop his body. It encapsulated him, vigorously awaking and enticing his weary muscles at the same time. He flexed his arms slowly, bringing them up, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it across his face and neck. He rubbed them vigorously for several moments. Eventually, shutting off the flow, he stepped from the shower, reached for a towel, and quickly dabbed himself dry.  
  
In his room, he fastidiously dressed in pearl grey Armani slacks, a white poplin shirt, and black Italian shoes. The shoes - what was the brand? - he had taken off an industrialist - a very wealthy American investor - he had himself killed in the deserts outside of Cairo. He didn't remember what the argument involved; he only recalled hating the American, the capitalist, the pig, the vile, the enemy. He hated the man so much that the thought of touching American flesh with bare hands was offensive. Instead, DeMarco clubbed the investor to death with the blunt handle of an ivory cane he fancied carrying at the time . another souvenir from another unfortunate American. To DeMarco's dismay, the beating cracked the cane, not breaking completely, but it was ruined nonetheless. So he left it with the body . left it sticking through the gurgling mess of blood-dripping flesh that was once the slain man's throat. In exchange, he took the American's shoes. He liked them - they were very dapper, too dapper to be wasted on the desert, but such was the way of so many American businessmen who traveled aboard. Somehow, the exchange seemed the moral thing to do.  
  
On the bed, he ruffled through his suitcase, brushing aside the neatly folded clothes, until he found the object of his search. The pistol, much like a Glock, fit snug into the palm of his hand. It was largely glass and plastic in manufacture, the perfect barely-discernible decoy for any security system's x-ray. Of course, 'Grail' cost him a small fortune, but money was of no consequence. Victory required a high price, and DeMarco would purchase the ammunition he needed here - in the United States - illegally, as all criminal masterminds did. At least, that was a lesson he had learned from CNN, not his mother. Besides, he had the other guns from last night - the pistols he had taken off Emile, the weapons he had found stashed in his cousin's limousine. Firepower wasn't an issue for the time being.  
  
Making the best use of it was.  
  
*****  
  
Essential Capital Storage wasn't yet open for the business day, so he hoisted himself up and over the facility's back gate. He landed squarely on the asphalt. Immediately, he heard the electronic whirring and noticed the motion-sensored security camera pivot in his direction. He smiled. DeMarco didn't care if his image was captured on tape. By the time anyone with the ability to stop him would review the footage, he would be gone . long gone . in hiding . waiting for the next step in his plot for revenge. After all, he was here to make those responsible pay, and justice held a high price. After all, justice was his sole purpose for coming to America. In the meantime, any police investigators, federal agents, or government operatives who wanted to find him would serve as little more than comic relief. Target practice. Training. Sport.  
  
Walking slowly and purposefully down the alleyway, he held his arms out in a grand dramatic gesture for the cameras to record.  
  
'Look at me, all of you braggards and all of you cowards,' he thought as he paraded for the lenses. 'Look at me. Know that I am here, and realize what I mean to do. Once you do, you will know that your security measures - however far and wide they reach - do not work. You will know that you have already failed.' He stared at the nearest camera's eye, and his expression grew serious, fixed. 'By allowing me to walk on your soil, you have already lost this war.'  
  
He wouldn't be here long - only long enough to detonate the explosives Emile had so carefully purchased and hid. He would set them to go off within the hour - long enough for him to be far away, long enough for the area police to arrive on the scene, and long enough for the Washington, D.C. rush hour to begin. That was it. The explosives were to serve no greater purpose. They couldn't. After all, explosions were passé. Meaningless. Pointless. As far as DeMarco was concerned, they served only one purpose: to create a suitable diversion, creating a false premise for America's under-educated law enforcement officials to follow to its dead end . perhaps 'dead' in more ways than one.  
  
END of Chapter 16 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17  
  
Six Days, Ten Hours, Thirty-eight Minutes  
  
"Mr. Finkle?"  
  
His neck aching, Ebdon Finkle sat up on the bed – more of a cot, in his mind and none to his liking. The mattress was far too hard – like solid clay ground – and the pillow felt fresh off the store rack, too hard, never used or broken in. He didn't much care for his surroundings – the immaculate white room, the silent but oppressive overhead fluorescents, the simple white plastic table and chair, and the terribly, horribly, unforgivably underused bed. Finkle grew up in Mississippi where a house 'felt' lived in since its birth. And it wasn't so clean that it felt 'sanitized.' He was used to a fine layer of dust – nothing dirty, just a thin coating – hanging in the air, resting on the coffee table. But this room – this cold clinical chamber – reminded him of the sensation he felt in funeral parlors. It was far too 'clean' for his tastes.  
  
To make matters worse, he had no idea what he was doing here.  
  
Turning in the direction of the voice, he said, "That's my name. Ebdon Finkle, young lady. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me just who in the hell is asking?"  
  
Stepping forward, Olga relaxed into the leather chair security had placed there for her. She smiled, hoping to disarm the elderly gentleman with her womanly charms, but she guessed by the look on his face that this was going to be no easy task. Given the present circumstances, she didn't blame him.  
  
"Mr. Finkle," she tried soothingly, "my name is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
She nearly jumped at the way the old man cocked his ear toward the glass.  
  
Tentatively, she asked, "Can you hear me?"  
  
"Barely," he replied. "I'm not deaf, but you're going to have to speak up, young lady. That glass is pretty thick, and those holes for communicating are pretty high up."  
  
As fate would have it, she wasn't disarming him. He was disarming her.  
  
"My name," she started over, emphasizing her words, "is Dr. Olga Vukavitch."  
  
"Doctor?" he asked, closing his eyes, brushing a hand across his haggard face. "Miss, I'm not in any need of a doctor. What I need is a carpenter!" Arching an eyebrow, he glared at her. "What in the hell kind of room is this to put a man in? To put any man in? It's three ugly white walls without so much as a picture on 'em! The ceiling is just as bad! There isn't any door. At least, there isn't any that I can see. And then there's that wall. That wall of glass you're hiding behind." Slowly, disgustedly, he shook his head back at her. "This isn't any room, doctor. It's a cage. In a zoo. And I don't care much for being caged, if you follow my meaning."  
  
She nodded. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Finkle, but this room is a necessary precaution."  
  
"Precaution?"  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"For whom?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I said, for whom?" he repeated. "Precautions are protections meant for someone, young lady. So, I'll ask you again, for whom?" He held his hands out. "Is this a precaution for me?" He pointed quickly at her. "Are you suffering from some highly contagious disease of some kind? That wouldn't make you a very good doctor. At least, not a very good doctor that I'd want to be treated by." He refused to take his accusing eyes off of her. "I can only assume that's the truth. You're sick, and you don't want to expose me to whatever you're suffering. Given the fact that I know that – as of this morning – I crawled out of the same bed I've slept in for the last twenty years without so much as a case of the sniffles, I can only guess that you're the guilty party. Now, what that tells me is I'm no danger to anyone, doctor, and if that's the case, then I must need protection from you. Or others like you." He held his head up proudly. "I don't mean any offense, miss. I'm just not very pleased to find myself in this predicament. I think, if you were to walk a mile in my shoes, you would feel the same way."  
  
Again, she smiled, hoping to soften the man's ire. "Mr. Finkle, your isolation is a precaution ... for all of mankind."  
  
"Mankind?"  
  
"That's correct, sir."  
  
He narrowed his eyes to slits. "What did you say your name was?"  
  
"Doctor Vukavitch," she explained. "Olga Vukavitch."  
  
"Vukavitch?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He winced quizzically. "Is that Russian?"  
  
She fought back a heavy sigh. "It is. Sir."  
  
"I never much cared for Russians."  
  
Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I hear that. A lot."  
  
He rose from the bed, walking toward the glass. "Dr. Vukavitch, would you do me a favor?"  
  
"Anything I can, Mr. Finkle."  
  
Reaching the glass, he held up his palm to the cold surface. He pressed his fingers flat to the transparency. "Can you see the wrinkles there? In my hand?"  
  
Curious, she studied his palm. "I do."  
  
Smiling, he quipped, "Those are the only things wrong with my body, young lady. So would you mind telling me how one overworked, underpaid, and increasingly agitated old man with wrinkled hands poses any threat to all of mankind?"  
  
Olga rose from her chair. She stepped up to the glass to face the man.  
  
"Mr. Finkle, you made contact with a man at your restaurant."  
  
"Frank?"  
  
At the sound of his name, Olga smiled unexpectedly. "Yes," she breathed. "His name is Frank Parker."  
  
"Parker?" The old man sucked on his bottom lip for a moment. "Is that so? The young man wouldn't even give me his last name."  
  
"It is our belief that Mr. Parker may have exposed you to a very rare form of contamination."  
  
Finkle turned back and glared at her. "You're kidding?"  
  
"No, sir," she answered succinctly. "I wish I were."  
  
"But I thought he was involved in some helicopter crash?"  
  
Helicopter crash? It made sense. Frank Parker knew enough not to divulge the secrets of the BackStep Program. He had concocted a ruse to throw the man's obvious questions off.  
  
"That's correct," she agreed.  
  
"He said something about ... he said something about a battery pack exploding in his helicopter," Finkle confessed, lines drawn tight in his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to remember their dialogue. "He said that the explosion had caused him to bleed." The man opened his eyes and studied Olga's expressionless face. "But I'm going to guess that what you're telling me is the truth. I'm going to guess that Frank Parker was flying that helicopter, and he was transporting something. Eh? Some kind of human organ for transplant? Some kind of virus? Something infected?" He pulled his hand off the glass and pointed at himself. "And he was infected ... he came running up to my restaurant ... and he infected me?"  
  
As much as she detested lying to the elderly gentleman, Olga followed protocol. It had been established years before in the event of temporal contamination.  
  
"That's what we currently are investigating, Mr. Finkle," she conceded. "I give you my word that Mr. Parker was unaware that he might've faced exposure to any form of contagion. He did not knowingly put your life – nor would he place any life – at risk, sir." She fought back the lump in her throat at the memories of the cynical chrononaut suddenly filling her mind's eye. "Frank Parker is a patriot. He does great things for your governments, and he would never have knowingly hurt you – or anyone else, for that matter."  
  
Finkle opened his eyes wide. "Doctor, what was he carrying?" he asked. "Is it ... is it something lethal?"  
  
She tilted her head slightly. "At this point, Mr. Finkle, I don't honestly know." She stepped even closer to the glass, placing her hands on the wall for him to see. "However, I give you my word that we can find out. What we're going to do ... we're going to run some tests."  
  
"Tests?"  
  
"Yes, blood work, mostly," she confessed. "At this point, I give you my word that my assistants will do nothing invasive. We're not going to harm you in any way. It's just that ... we need to rule out every possibility of infection."  
  
He nodded, agreeing to subject himself to whatever she needed.  
  
"Also," she continued, "I'll need to spend some time debriefing you."  
  
"Debriefing?"  
  
"I'll be asking you some questions, sir." She took a deep breath before she explained, "I'd like to talk with you about your encounter with Mr. Parker."  
  
Finkle pursed his lips. "Well, doctor, there really isn't much to tell. Like I told you a little while ago, your Mr. Parker wouldn't even tell me his last name. Then, those soldiers showed up. One of them pounded Frank over the head pretty hard. I hope he's all right."  
  
"I understand," she said. "But any detail – however big or small – could possibly be of great help."  
  
With an expression of bewilderment, he nodded. "I don't have any problem with that, miss. Whatever you'd like to know, I'm happy to oblige."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
Suddenly – as if the thought struck like lightning out of the clear blue sky – Ebdon Finkle asked, "Is Frank going to be all right?"  
  
She smiled. Here was this man – this old gentleman of the American South – trapped in a cage – in one moment fearing for his safety – and suddenly, it was if he didn't matter any longer. In the blink of an eye, all of his attention turned to another human being – someone he had little more than a casual encounter – and he wanted to make certain that Frank Parker was safe.  
  
"Mr. Parker is going to be just fine."  
  
End of Chapter 17 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18  
  
Six Days, Ten Hours, Five Minutes  
  
Sipping his coffee, Richard DeMarco glanced casually across the headlines of the Washington Times, searching for anything of interest to read. The 'Stars-N-Stripes' Coffee Shop was bustling with morning commuters stopping in briefly, and, occasionally, he studied their hurried expressions. Their faces only confirmed what he had already long suspected about America: no one cared. People went about their business, oblivious to the fact that there was an entire world going about its business outside. They rushed in. They bought their coffee and their danishes. All the while, the clerks smiled, took the money, plunked keys on an outdated cash register, and repeated the cycle of commerce over and over and over again. The customers left, leaping into their cars and speeding off toward the nation's capital ... all the while ignorant of that life was passing them by faster than they raced past roadside mile markers.  
  
"Americans," he muttered, losing himself once more in the newspaper's headlines. "They are all alike."  
  


* * *

  
Thirty minutes later, DeMarco finished with the newspaper. He closed it in time to see the silver-haired gentleman walk in the café, saunter up to the counter, place an order for a cup of coffee – "In a ceramic cup, if you please, not your Styrofoam bucket" – and glance over his shoulder. Comfortably, he strode over to where DeMarco sat, and the two nodded.  
  
"It's been a long time, Richard," the man finally broke the silence.  
  
DeMarco slowly spun the closed newspaper around and around on the tabletop. "Great things require great preparation, Arthur."  
  
Arthur Pendley smiled. "Yes," he agreed, gripping the back of a chair and sliding it away from the table. "I suppose you're right."  
  
The silver-haired man sat. Casually, he sniffed before he asked, "And how was your flight?"  
  
"Uneventful," DeMarco replied.  
  
"Really?"  
  
He nodded. "I travel light, Arthur, when I'm on business."  
  
Pendley tilted his head back, smiling broadly as a young man delivered his cup of coffee to the table. He thanked the young man, taking the hook tightly in one finger and raising the beverage to his mouth. He sipped easily, careful not to imbibe a hot swallow, and then he placed his cup back on the tabletop.  
  
"You may travel light, Richard," he remarked, "but it has been my experience in our, say, fifteen year association that you tend to pick up baggage along the way." Again, he sniffed. "You have elaborate tastes, my dear young man, and, as I seem to recall, those tastes have caused you some trouble in the past."  
  
DeMarco remained expressionless. "I already told you, Arthur." Leaning forward, he emphasized each word: "I travel light."  
  
Pendley's eyes glinted with humor. "What? Do you honestly expect me to believe that there were no pretty young ladies on the Trans-Atlantic flight? Come now. You take me for a fool." He heaved a leaden sigh. "Given the present state of our affairs, I can only hope that you've remembered past lessons learned. I hate to think that an unnecessary slip of your libido has jeopardized everything that you and I have agreed to accomplish in so short a time." He relaxed his shoulders, fingered the hook on the cup of his coffee. "Why don't you defer to the better part of valor and be perfectly honest with me, Richard. With whom did you speak with on that flight?"  
  
DeMarco shrugged. "There was a woman."  
  
"Isn't there always?"  
  
"She sat next to me."  
  
"I hope that's all she did."  
  
Wincing at the older man, DeMarco leaned his elbows on the table. "Arthur, I will ask you one time – and I will only ask you one time – that you change this topic of conversation to something less volatile. Otherwise, if you want to continue this pointless banter, I have better things to do to occupy the time ... and, yes, that includes making a personal visit to a very pretty woman I shared nothing but simple conversation with on the Trans-Atlantic flight."  
  
The two men stared at one another, neither willing to say anything, to plot and execute the next move. Theirs was a game of chess, and a most dangerous one – there could be only a single victor, but how soon would triumph arrive? At what cost?  
  
Finally, Pendley shrugged. "Might I assume that you'll take care of it?"  
  
"Take care of what, Arthur?"  
  
The older man gestured cavalierly. "This personal business of yours?"  
  
DeMarco smiled. "I'll deal with it. I give you my word."  
  
At that, the older man lowered his eyes. "Never give another man your word, Richard, not when you mean to give him your best effort."  
  
"I will give you my best effort, Arthur."  
  
Pleased with himself, the man smirked. "Very well." He took a pause in order to enjoy another sip of the warm coffee. "Shall we talk about the merchandise?"  
  
Shaking his head, DeMarco relaxed in his chair. "I'd rather not."  
  
"What's the point of the meeting then?"  
  
Feeling he had somehow managed to take the lead in their contest of wills, DeMarco glanced through the window at the mid-morning sky. "I wanted to say hello."  
  
"That could've been done with the telephone, Richard."  
  
"I know it could have, Arthur," the younger man agreed, running a hand through his thick hair. "But I never like to share news of a death in my family over the telephone. I consider it ... impolite."  
  
"A death?" Pendley asked.  
  
"Emile," DeMarco said. "My cousin."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes. He died last night."  
  
"So sudden?"  
  
"He had exhausted his usefulness to me," DeMarco said flatly. Turning back to the table, he locked eyes with the senior. "From this point forward, anyone who exhausts his usefulness to me will suffer the same fate. Family or not. I hope, for your sake, that you are understanding what I'm saying, Arthur. If you are not, then let me speak plainly. I'm making it perfectly clear that, as of this moment, I will not tolerate the slightest provocation, the slightest interrogation, or the slightest insult from you or anyone like you." He leaned forwarded, drumming his fingers softly along the edge of the table. "I am here – in America – on my enemy's soil – to risk my life for a cause of my choosing. Not yours. Not Emile's. And certainly cause belonging to the Faction." He pulled his fingers away from the table's edge, and he placed his hand flat on the surface. "I am here to finish some terrible business. Personal business. Should anyone try to subvert what I must accomplish, I will kill them without a moment's hesitation." He widened his eyes when he added, "Should you try to stop me, I will see to it that your remains are never found."  
  
The older man slowly nodded, his lower lip twitching. Eventually, he said, "You have served the Faction well, Richard, for a very long time. These are desperate times, and, as you well know, America is on high alert when it comes to nefarious deeds. I have to warn you that the Faction – driven as they are – do not support missions of any personal nature, so you will not have any friends there, should you require them." He paused, studying the young man's face. "But ... while you may not have their support, I give you my word that, in your time of need, you will have mine."  
  
Purposefully, the man said, "Thank you, old friend."  
  
"Tell me what you need."  
  
"I will, Arthur," DeMarco replied, "when the time is right."  
  
End of Chapter 18 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19  
  
Six Days, Nine Hours, Ten Minutes  
  
Approaching the glass wall, Bradley Talmadge fixed a grim look on his face. His first confrontation had ended in frustration. Given the very nature of BackStep Operations, he couldn't allow that to happen again.  
  
"I thought we'd give this another try, Frank."  
  
Sitting in the chair, Parker locked his arms across his chest. "Well, isn't this my lucky day?"  
  
"Don't start with me, Frank."  
  
"I'm not starting anything, Bradley," the chrononaut replied. "Like you, I'm only trying to figure this out. Unlike you, however, I'm the one stuck in the fishbowl breathing what your top men qualify as recycled air." Disgustedly, he shrugged. "Hell, Bradley, I've got nowhere to go. You know that. I know that. I'm certainly willing sit this one out on the bench so long as this game starts going somewhere real fast."  
  
Agreeably, Talmadge nodded. "Why don't we work together?"  
  
"I was hoping you'd say that," Parker stated, rising. "So how about a round of 'Let's Make A Deal'?"  
  
"There are no deals, Frank."  
  
"Come on, Bradley!"  
  
"No deals, Frank. I won't repeat myself again."  
  
"But you haven't even seen what's behind Door Number One!"  
  
Pointing, the director barked, "You're behind Door Number One, Frank. You're going to stay there until I have some answers."  
  
"Answers?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
"Who's asking the questions?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"I don't work that way."  
  
"Then you aren't Frank Parker."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
Curious, the younger man asked, "Well, the way I see things, you reached that conclusion as soon as I arrived here, Bradley."  
  
"I'm doing my job, and the real Frank Parker would know that."  
  
"How can you be so sure that I'm not him?"  
  
Standing firm with one hand stamped against the glass, Talmadge said, "Because the Frank Parker that I knew always placed personal differences aside when it came to BackStep Operations. The Frank Parker I knew wasn't interested in cutting deals for the sake of personal gain. He was interested in doing his job, to the best of his abilities, and even surpassing those abilities when the situation required it." Pointing, he continued, "Now, you tell me: how can those traits possibly reconcile with your persistence in cutting a deal?"  
  
"Knew," Parker said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Knew," he repeated. The chrononaut held his hands out in a gesture of surrender. "Knew. You said the Frank Parker you 'knew.'"  
  
Sighing, Talmadge brushed a hand across his forehead. "So I did."  
  
"Past tense, Bradley," Parker proceeded to make his argument. "Not present tense, as is the case in my presently sitting right here, presently locked up behind this glass, and presently being treated like a mouse in a cage." He quickly rounded the table and approached the glass wall. "Now, you've slipped, and you've told me one thing that you can't deny: Frank Parker in this timeline is dead."  
  
Talmadge didn't know what to say.  
  
"What?" Parker tried. "You're not denying it, Bradley. A little bit of denial would be very good for my self esteem right now."  
  
The director sighed. He lowered his eyes, staring at the floor. When he realized he had lost the first round, he conceded, "I never could play poker with you, Frank."  
  
Restless, the younger man turned and walked around the sealed room. "No, you never could, Bradley." Parker fought back his anger, realizing he had misdirected much of it at the director. "Of course, that doesn't excuse the fact that Donovan and I made enough money off Ramsey to fund a BackStep Operation of our own, but I won't mince words. As a matter of fact, I don't want to mince words with anyone, Bradley. I'm not even sure that I know what the phrase 'mince words' means, but there is one thing that I do know." He sighed. "I'm sick and tired of being locked up like a lab animal waiting for the specialists to dissect me and hang what's left of my good body parts on their wall for the colleagues to admire!" He suppressed the urge to run at the glass, to slam himself against the barrier, to futilely try to break free. "If you don't want to bargain, that's fine with me. Instead, let me tell you what I know. Stop me when you've heard enough."  
  
Quickly, Parker organized his thoughts as best as he could recall the salient points. "Roughly, I'm guessing around twelve hours ago, I arrived here ... though I'm not quite sure where here is. I do know that it sure as Hell isn't home."  
  
"No," Talmadge agreed. "It isn't."  
  
"Bradley, I followed protocol, like I always do."  
  
With a smirk, the older man interrupted, "Like you always do?"  
  
Pointing, Parker chirped, "That was a cheap shot."  
  
"They were your words," the director explained, chuckling mildly. "I just wanted you to hear how they sounded."  
  
Ignoring the argument, Parker approached the glass. "I telephoned in a 'conundrum,' and you acted like you were speaking to a ghost!"  
  
"Frank, you have to understand ..."  
  
"No, Bradley!" the man shouted. "What I have to understand is where I am, what I'm doing here, and whether or not the event I was sent back in time to stop is going to take place in this timeline or it isn't! Like you said, when it comes to the mission, I've always stayed true, and I can't do that while I'm locked up in here!"  
  
Holding up his hands, Talmadge cautioned, "Take it easy."  
  
"This isn't right, and you know it isn't right."  
  
"What isn't right?"  
  
"This ... this whole set-up," Parker explained.  
  
"What isn't right, Frank?" Talmadge pressed. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Flabbergasted, the young man threw his arms down at his side. "Look at me, Bradley."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm here. I'm the world's first time traveler – at least, so far as you and I know – and I'm sitting here in this cage."  
  
"Frank, it's only a precaution."  
  
"But I don't belong here."  
  
"Frank, I can't be any more specific in telling you that this is only a necessary precaution."  
  
"No, no," Parker interrupted. "That isn't what I mean. What I mean is ... I don't belong here. In this timeline." Frustrated, he brought one hand up and cupped his eyes. "Where am I, by the way?"  
  
"Besides the planet Earth?"  
  
"No," he corrected, slowly spinning around and once more taking in the whiteness. "This room. Where is this place?"  
  
"You're in Never Never Land."  
  
Surprised, Frank was taken aback. Slowly, he spun around, taking in every inch of the containment cell. "This? This room? You expect me to believe that this room is part of headquarters?"  
  
Squinting, Talmadge finally understood. "You ... you don't have a quarantine area in your timeline? Is that what you're saying, Frank?"  
  
"Bradley, you know as well as I do that I've broken into every crawlspace, every corridor, every crack, and every crevasse of this installation," the chrononaut explained. "There's nothing left swept under the rug, but I've never seen anything like this."  
  
"Really?" Suddenly fascinated, Talmadge pulled the corridor chair close to the glass and sat down. "Frank, listen very close to what I'm about to tell you. You may find some of this – well – hard to believe, but I think we've made it our business of swallowing those things others find impossible to accept. Can you do that for me?"  
  
Shrugging, Parker quipped, "As far as I'm concerned, you can drone on all day long, Bradley. It's not like I have a choice."  
  
Smiling, Talmadge said, "Don't you dare disappoint me now, Frank. You've always had a choice. I could strongly argue that you've always had 'the' choice." The director could tell by his expression that the younger man wasn't following, so he continued. "You've held the fate of the entire world – if not the cosmos – in your hands, doing what you do, risking all that you have. Each and every time, you rose to the occasion. You did what was necessary to complete the mission. You've saved more lives than you'll ever possibly imagine, and that's always the choice you made, Frank. All I'm asking you to do is make that choice one more time."  
  
At the risk of repeating himself, the younger man replied, "My point exactly, Bradley. Have I ever had any other choice?"  
  
Dismissing the cynicism, the director asked, "In your adventures, in all of your travels, have you visited alternate timelines?"  
  
"Alternate timelines?" Crossing his arms again, Parker nodded. "More than I care to remember."  
  
"How many?"  
  
"I don't know. Three. Four. Maybe a half-dozen."  
  
"That many?"  
  
Shrugging, Parker considered the idea. "Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Bradley, I had this exact same conversation with Olga once. We were talking about the business of BackStepping – while I was heavily drinking, of course – and she asked if I had ever thought about the fact that maybe one of the missions I had completed wasn't supposed to be successful. She was going on the way she does, sometimes, talking about Fate. Her point was that maybe I had stopped some catastrophe – halted some plague from falling into the wrong hands, kept some politician from being assassinated – when what Fate had truly intended was for the catastrophe to take place. Maybe I had kept an event from happening that was supposed to happen." He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the significance those thoughts had over him, coming from someone he held so dear. "I remember telling her that, as far as I was concerned, each and every BackStep was a doorway to another possibility."  
  
"What did she say?"  
  
"I think her exact words were ... 'possibility shmossibility, Mr. Parker.'"  
  
"BackStepping is the business of creating alternate timelines, Frank." Talmadge smiled. "But alternate dimensions? I can tell you without a doubt that, while we considered them mathematically before the NSA ever authorized a BackStep, we didn't imagine that you would ever stumble into one." Leaning forward, he asked, "Do you have no idea of what happened to those other realities – to the people you met, to the events you either caused, changed, or interrupted – once you left?"  
  
Parker considered the question for a long moment before responding. "No, I don't," he finally concluded.  
  
"Frank," Talmadge began, but then he stopped. He held up his hands, deliberately balling them into fists. Parker guessed that the man was struggling with finding what to say, how to say it, and what was safe to divulge. "Because I trust in the man before me, I'm going to take a risk and tell you a few things. I think it's definitely safe to conclude that, yes, you existed in our timeline. As you were quick to point out, I used the past tense." The director's expression darkened for a moment, and the young man wasn't sure of what to make of the troubled countenance. "Yes, you were our best chrononaut – you still are, as far as I'm concerned – but I speak of you in the past tense because ... you died."  
  
"Look," Parker tried, dragging his chair around the table and placing it in front of the glass, directly across from Talmadge, "Bradley, if you're afraid of talking to me about being dead, then let me tell you: I've been dead. If it isn't a fringe benefit of this business, then it's definitely an occupational hazard. I've been dead. I've come back. I've killed myself. I've seen my friends die, and I've seen them come back through the miracle of time travel. I've hiccupped backward through my own existence. I've met myself more times than Elvis gets spotted at a Dunkin Donuts. Hell, I've even kicked my own ass. If that isn't something that would require serious therapy then I don't know what is!"  
  
"Your world and mind, Frank," Talmadge offered, "aren't so very different, but there are some differences. Key differences. Critical changes. Looking at them from one perspective, they may seem minor. However, when you see them from the outside, you realize what a delicate house of cards what you do really is. Like your being here. Our version of you died some time ago, as you so aptly deduced."  
  
"Why?" he asked. "What happened to me?"  
  
"No," the director muttered. "I'm sorry, Frank. That isn't what we need to discuss."  
  
Finally at ease with the conversation, the chrononaut nodded. He had always trusted in Bradley Talmadge to make decisions, and many of those decisions required even more that Frank would have to carry out. Whether this was the real Bradley Talmadge or not, Parker decided he'd had to trust the man.  
  
What other choice did he have?  
  
"What we need to discuss is how you were brought you here," Talmadge explained, "into this alternate reality. For that, we're going to need some help."  
  
"Help?" Parker asked. "Who did you have in mind?"  
  
"I've sent for Isaac Mentnor."  
  
"Isaac?" Parker appreciated hearing another familiar name. "What do you mean you sent for him? Isn't Isaac a part of BackStep?"  
  
Inclining his head, Talmadge warned, "Be careful what you ask for, Frank. There are things that you have to know. There are things that you must know. But now isn't the time to get into those."  
  
Slowly, Parker nodded. "All right," he agreed, trusting in his boss. "All right, Bradley. But ... I want to know everything."  
  
"I give you my word, Frank, that I'll tell you everything," Talmadge offered. "First, however, you and I have a puzzle to solve, and the only man who can help us should be here within the hour."  
  
End of Chapter 19 


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20  
  
Six Days, Eight Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes  
  
"One false move," the thug – his face hidden by a ski mask – threatened, his voice guttural, grating, intimidating, "and everyone in here is dead."  
  
Craig Donovan felt the cold steel circle of the bank robber's muzzle at the back of his neck. When it was clear that a robbery was underway, he had tried to intervene politely: the bank clerk – a young woman probably in her early twenties – had immediately panicked, despite her training, and stepped three feet away from the counter, causing the criminal to step all the way forward to the counter. The man waved the gun at her, gesturing at the open cash drawer to the right, and he barked several obscene commands to the trembling lady. Near the bank's entrance, another gunman – his face also hidden underneath a mask – yelled for the 'bitch' to hurry up, to get the money in the bag, to do it now, now, now! That's when Donovan couldn't stand idly by any longer. Casually, he took a step closer to the counter, and, in a gentle voice, he whispered, "Easy, man. She's just a kid." Startled, the robber turned his head, giving the former Navy Seal a look that Donovan had seen one too many times. Enraged, the criminal lifted his free hand, grabbed the black man by the back of his head, and slammed Donovan's forehead to the counter. His vision exploded in a burst of painful white light, the surroundings suddenly spinning, and he took a few deep breaths, allowing for the vertigo to dissipate. Before he knew what was happening, the man had lowered his 9 millimeter Beretta, choosing to shove the muzzle at his new captive's neck. The woman yelped, but the crook said, "If you so much as think about disobeying any order I give you, you'll be wiping this idiot's brain off your dress."  
  
His senses back to normal, ignoring the pain, Donovan pressed his face to the cold marble counter and sensed a trickle of blood from the gash the criminal had inflicted. Keeping completely still, his face against the smooth finish, a vise-like grip on his shoulder, and the cold muzzle reminding him how fragile life was, he tried again: "Easy, man. Just take it easy. You'll get your money, and you'll get out of here. No one has to get hurt."  
  
The crook snickered. "You're already hurt."  
  
"That's okay," Donovan replied. "Better me ... better one person ... than everyone in here."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"You hurt everyone in here, and you can bet every dollar this clerk gives you that the police will never let you get away."  
  
"I told you to shut up."  
  
"All right," he tried smoothly, trying to control the situation. "All right. This is your show. I'm just a regular customer."  
  
"Then shut it."  
  
Donovan took a deep breath. He felt his center of balance, realizing that, if needed, he could shift quickly, carefully, and the gunman would slide forward. In that solitary moment, the gun might come free, but it was a gamble. The risk was too great. There were too many innocent people already fearing for their lives, shivering on the floor, waiting for these endless moments to finally be completely over. He wouldn't risk it.  
  
Moving his eyes slowly, Donovan glanced up at the female bank clerk. "What's your name?"  
  
"You don't need to know her name," the thug cautioned.  
  
"Easy, man," he tried. "I'm only trying to help." Fixing his eyes on her, Donovan repeated, "What's your name?"  
  
"Jaime," she finally answered, her voice trembling.  
  
"Jaime," Donovan began, "now, let me tell you something. You're in charge. I know you don't think you are. I know you probably have a boss you report to, and I know he's probably watching you right now. Even he knows what I'm about to tell you, and I'm doing this, remember, at the risk of my own life. This man here? This guy holding my head to the counter? He has a gun, but that doesn't make him in charge. He knows it just as much as I do. You're in charge, and what you need to do now is get it under control. You need to take that sack he placed in front of you. You need to take that money from the cash drawer. You need to put everything you have in there, and, then, you need to give it to this man. That's all it takes, sweetheart. It's that simple." Donovan tried to soften his voice a bit more. "Remember. You're in charge. Now, go ahead and do what you know has to be done. There's no one here who's going to blame you for anything. There's no one who's going to think you made a mistake. Right now, the only mistake you can make is not accepting the fact that if you don't take charge there are a whole lot of people who might not see their friends and family."  
  
"You're damn right they won't see any of their family," the crook threatened.  
  
"Easy," Donovan repeated, tilted his eyes upward in the direction of the muffled voice. "Let her do her job, man. She knows what to do. Just let her do it."  
  
Slowly, Jaime stepped forward. She reached out, took the sack from the counter, and flipped it open.  
  
"That's good work, Jaime," Donovan praised her. "You're doing just fine."  
  
"Yeah, that's really good work," the crook said. "Now, put all the money in the bag."  
  
"Do as he says," Donovan quickly interrupted, not wanting to lose what fragile control he had over the situation while he still could. "Go on, now. Put the money in the bag."  
  
"HURRY UP!" the gunman screamed from the door.  
  
The former Navy Seal felt the cold ring shift a bit. He guessed that his captor had turned to glance at the door.  
  
"Shut up!" his attacker snapped. "She's doing it right now! She's putting the money in the bag!"  
  
"THEN YOU TELL HER TO DO IT FASTER OR I'M GONNA PUT A BULLET IN HER HEAD!"  
  
"I said, she's doing it!"  
  
Good, Donovan thought. It was a classic scenario: a two-man job where the trigger happy one insisted on guarding the door, staying as far away from the security cameras as possible. He didn't want to enter the bank too far out of fear of being trapped, cornered. As a matter of fact, Donovan knew that – unless the circumstances warranted it – the doorman wouldn't move inside without first considered making a run for it.  
  
It was the classic scenario.  
  
"See, Jaime?" Donovan said. "Like I said, you're in charge. You just keep putting that money in that bag."  
  
Weakly, she glanced down at him, and she smiled. Behind her weakness, he knew that she was trusting in him to get her through this, and he would.  
  
In fact, he had just about had enough of it.  
  
"See?" he repeated. "Everything is okay."  
  
"Damn right," his captor said, his grip loosening a bit, "and let's keep it that way. Hurry it up, girl."  
  
"Man, she's moving as fast as she can," Donovan cautioned the robber. "There's no need for that. Let her do what's she's doing. You just stand there with that gun to my head and do your job."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me," he continued. "Let her get your money together, and then you and your pal there can get out."  
  
Uncertain as to what to say next, the criminal shut his mouth.  
  
"You're doing a good job, Jaime."  
  
Holding back tears, she replied. "Thank you."  
  
"You're doing real good."  
  
She grimaced and nodded. A single tear rolled down her face. "Thank you," she offered her sincere appreciation once more.  
  
"You're doing exactly as you're told, and you're staying in charge," Donovan remarked, shifting his feet slightly for what was about to come next. "That's a good job. I can tell that you're a good worker. I can tell, by the way you're handling yourself, that you always do what you're told."  
  
She continued stuffing money into the bag. "I do," she whispered, her emotions cracking through the tough exterior she had long tried to keep. "I really do."  
  
"That's good. That's really good."  
  
"Thank you," she said.  
  
"And Jaime?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"DUCK!"  
  
Donovan brought his free hand up, catching his captor off guard, and he grabbed the man's wrist, forcing the muzzle away.  
  
CRACK! CRACK!  
  
Instinctively, the thug pulled the trigger, and Donovan listened as the bullets whistled as they sliced the air alongside his head. He closed his eyes as they tore into the marble countertop, ripping chunks of rock free and exploding them into dust and fragments. Standing against the brute force on his shoulder, Donovan yanked the gun arm out to the side and twisted hard enough until the man screamed, losing his balance, and took one step backward.  
  
"HEY!" the thug near the door yelled, finally realizing that his partner was under attack. "HEY!"  
  
It was a classic scenario, Donovan realized, as the doorman suddenly took a step forward ... exactly as he had predicted.  
  
Moving at lightning speed, the former Seal ducked under his captive's extended arm and brought the man's elbow to rest on his shoulder. The man yelped as Donovan cracked the joint, pulling down on the wrist and practically snapping the arm in two. Again, the gunman's motor reflexes kicked into gear. He squeezed the trigger, but, without the use of his arm, he couldn't aim ...  
  
... but Donovan could.  
  
Quickly, he forced the gun in the direction of the door, and, before he could do anything, two bullets rocketed from the mouth of the gun, fired blindly but with enough simple precision to catch the doorman square in the chest. The man's body twitched, his mouth flung open wordlessly, and he crashed backward through the thick plate glass and out of sight.  
  
Now in complete control, Donovan lowered his balance even lowered, and he pulled. Off balance, the robber screamed in pain as he was lifted off the floor, rolled over his aggressor's back, and slammed into the hard, cold, marble floor. The man grimaced, but Donovan wasn't done. Crouching over the man, Donovan focused all of his weight into his knee and dropped onto the man's broken arm. He heard the second crunch of bone splintering into uselessness, and he listened to the clap-clap-clap of the would-be robber's finger endlessly pulling the trigger to an already emptied pistol.  
  
Stretching out his leg, Donovan kicked the pistol away.  
  
Moaning, slowly lifting his head, the robber spat, "You sonuvabitch ..."  
  
Grimacing, Donovan rocked all of his effort into one punch to the man's forehead. The blow snapped the crook's head backward, smacking it once more into the marble, and the thug painfully faded off into the land of the unconscious.  
  
With a smile, the former Seal spat, "I've been called worse."  
  


* * *

  
Outside, several squad cars were parked, and the D.C. area police were busy taking statements from the bank patrons and employees.  
  
"Do you want to tell me what the hell happened in there?" Detective Martin Guerrero asked.  
  
"Not really, Marty."  
  
Tilting his head in an expression of incredulity, the officer stated, "I'm not sure you have that option."  
  
Donovan shrugged. "Why don't you take it up with the NSA?"  
  
"I will."  
  
Smiling, the man started to walk away from the bank. He wasn't needed here any longer, and, from what he could remember, he had a full day ahead of him.  
  
"Don't give me that crap," the detective tried, taking up step beside him.  
  
"It isn't any crap, Marty."  
  
"You know as well as I do, Donovan. If I call the NSA, I'm going to given the polite brush off. The political 'no comment' speech. You know this damn town. I've got two injured bank robbers heading into intensive care, and I'm going to have to give my boss some answers as to how they got that way."  
  
"That's not my problem."  
  
"No," the man agreed, "but this crime scene is."  
  
"Not any more."  
  
Donovan felt the detective's hand on his shoulder, and he stopped.  
  
"Look," the officer tried, desperately wanting cooperation, "I know that you've been on administrative leave for ... well ... hell, how long has it been."  
  
"A while," the man agreed.  
  
"You give new meaning to the word 'vague,' Donovan. It's been quite some time since you were in the saddle."  
  
Growing uncomfortable with the conversation, Donovan shook his head. "I'm working."  
  
"You're rogue," Guerrero corrected. "You and I both know that the NSA has you classified as a rogue agent. You're what they call an 'orphan' in intelligence circles. You don't really have a father or a mother, but you report in all the same. It makes it easier for the NSA to conduct what appear to be non-government sanctioned investigations while having them handled by an agent who has every government resource available to him." He took his hand away. "Donovan, I have no problem with any of that. I understand you have your reasons, and I'm perfectly fine cleaning up your messes. All I'm asking is that you do me the courtesy of staying away from my crime scenes. Is that too much to ask?"  
  
"I don't go looking for trouble, Marty," the dark-skinned man said as he turned to leave. "As luck would have it, trouble just happens to always find me."  
  
End of Chapter 20 


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21  
  
Six Days, Seven Hours, Fifty-Nine Minutes  
  
Bradley Talmadge watched the Secret Service issue Black Hawk helicopter set down on the landing pad with as graceful a landing as he had ever seen. He had watched the aircraft approach, knowing full well the importance of its human cargo, and equally dreading his first meeting with Isaac Mentnor in almost two years. They had parted – Isaac resigned from the BackStep Program – not on the greatest of terms, but Talmadge understood perfectly the man's reasons. After all, Mentnor had been the silent but ever-present conscience of the program. Initially, he had questioned the merits of attempting time travel for even the most modest needs. 'Changing history is a deadly business,' he had warned, 'and it will not be without consequence. Unfortunately, given the nature of time travel, it is my suspicion that we will become aware of those dire consequences far too late to do anything about them ... hence the irony of the program.' Talmadge remembered the words well. In fact, he had scribbled them down, paraphrasing the exact usage, and he kept it in his private desk drawer. Those words served as a reminder to the cages unlocked with each and every BackStep. What animal would they release this time? Would humanity be saved, or would people everywhere suffer from their prejudiced tinkering with the series of natural events? Would Fate – perhaps the most persistent and irrepressible force in the universe (besides Frank Parker) – find the way to resist their machinations with such events? Would BackStepping only further compound the nature of the conflicts they initially sought to avoid? There were so many questions, and, as luck would have it, only traveling through time could provide the answers. Mentnor and Ballard – bless his departed soul – were always playing chess over the idea. To Ballard, time travel was a mathematical constant. Change one variable, and you change the equation. To Mentnor, time travel was the worst form of probable nuisance. Change one variable, and you risk changing the evolution of life itself.  
  
Thankfully, Talmadge stuck to his cigars. Principally, he served the NSA. If the Committee demanded a BackStep, then he ordered it so. If the Committee didn't believe any time travel was necessary, Talmadge accepted their judgment. He found his job far easier to accomplish if he didn't get bogged down by the mechanics. "You want a monkey," he remembered once telling the Committee, "then I'll get you a monkey. Don't expect me to find you the one chimp in a thousand with the ability to reproduce the works of Shakespeare, and we'll all get along fine."  
  
The pilot leapt out of the helicopter. Holding up one hand against the downward thrust of the rotors, he trotted midship, grasped the handle, and released the bay door. The white-haired gentleman rose, also cupping his hands around his ears. He stepped down from the compartment, nodded politely at the pilot, and then he spun around, sighting Talmadge. Quickly, he trotted in the director's direction. By the time the two were within recognizable distance, Talmadge made out the grimace on his old friend's face.  
  
"This had better be good, Bradley," Mentnor said, stopping in front of the senior officer, glaring at the man, showing nothing less than utter contempt in his eyes. "I told you a long time ago that, when I left the program, I was finished. As far as I'm concerned, I'm as finished with it today as I was back then. You'll have to do some serious convincing for me to stay here for anything longer than one hour."  
  
Talmadge smiled. "Despite our differences, Isaac ... it is good to see you."  
  
Completely disarmed, Mentnor lowered his hands to his side. A hint of shame washed over his face, his eyes drooping. Slowly, with some effort, he grinned back at the senior officer and said, "It's good to see you to, Bradley. But don't you for a moment think that I'm any less the curmudgeon today than I was when I resigned this post. You'd be underestimating me beyond any recall."  
  
The director chuckled. Over the roar of the lifting helicopter, he demanded, "Let's continue this inside."  
  


* * *

  
Taken back, Mentnor opened his eyes wide.  
  
"That's right, Isaac," Talmadge stated. "I've never had your authorization codes deactivated."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I couldn't bring myself to do it."  
  
Arching an eyebrow, the older gentleman remarked, "That's a breach of protocol, Bradley, that's punishable by death ... if I recall."  
  
"File the appropriate papers."  
  
The doors swung wide, and the two men walked inside. A solder saluted the two of them, but only Mentnor nodded an acknowledgement.  
  
"How's business?" the man finally asked.  
  
Talmadge walked briskly, keeping his eyes focused on the corridor ahead. "Business is usual, Isaac. We've had some developments as of late that require your particular expertise."  
  
He nodded. "I'm out of touch with the work you've been accomplishing, Bradley. To be perfectly honest with you, I'm not convinced that I can be of any value."  
  
"Let me be the judge of that."  
  
"You're the boss."  
  
"That I am."  
  


* * *

  
"Isaac!"  
  
Stopping in his tracks, Mentnor whirled around to find Olga Vukavitch – outfitted in a Level Prime Temporal Containment Suit – trotting up to him. She never slowed, colliding with him, laughing like a little girl, and kissing the man on the cheek.  
  
"Well," he replied, "there's a welcome almost worth stepping out and coming in again."  
  
Excitedly, she asked, "How have you been?"  
  
Slowly, he nodded. "I've been very well, thank you. Work at the university has been keeping me very busy. I'm teaching several ethics in sciences courses. Lectures, mostly. The students aren't exactly the kinds of minds that instill faith in the future, but I have my own share of teacher's pets."  
  
She laughed, again reaching forward and hugging the man. He understood, by her affection, that he was truly missed. He knew what an integral part of the BackStep operational team he had been ... but, after the event, he lost touch with measuring their accomplishments against the project's shortcomings. 'You can't save everyone,' he suddenly remembered telling Talmadge in an NSA briefing, and, from that moment on, his interest in the project drifted. Certainly, Ballard's death had an impact, but Mentnor lost interest in the work. Once he realized that he had completely stopped believing in any good they achieved, he had tendered his resignation. As he had anticipated, Olga took the news of his departure the hardest. She had come to his quarters and begged him to stay. She tried to convince him that, despite the way recent events had affected all of the team, they could work together and salvage the program on the merits of changing history for the better.  
  
Sadly, he no longer believed that, and he left Never Never Land the next morning without offering so much as a courteous goodbye.  
  
Suppressing the memory of his past history, he quickly changed the subject. "I understand from Bradley that you've found yourself in a bit of a pickle."  
  
Olga glanced at the director, and the man shook his head.  
  
"Then ... you don't know?" she asked Mentnor.  
  
"Know what?"  
  
Cautiously, she fell silent.  
  
"I think it best that you see for yourself, Isaac."  
  
With a hint of bitterness, the older man said, "That's what you said on the telephone, Bradley."  
  
"I stand by those words."  
  
Mentnor turned back to Olga. Her expression was grim, and he guessed that even she wasn't completely comfortable with what had developed.  
  
"Then," he began, "take me where I need to go."  
  
End of Chapter 21 


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22  
  
Six Days, Seven Hours, Forty-Four Minutes  
  
Slowly lifting his hand up to his forehead, Ebdon Finkle wiped away the thin layer of sweat that had formed there. The beads were small, he felt, but they were the sure sign that Dr. Vukavitch has warned him to watch for: the formation of a low-grade fever. He caressed the moisture on his fingertips, staring down at the nothingness, and he wondered if this was truly a sign or if he was coming down with some virus. Flu season seemed to be an around-the-calendar event any more, and he tried to think back over the last few days. Had he experienced any nausea? He didn't remember any bouts. Had he experienced vertigo or an inability to focus? Again, he wasn't certain of it. At his age, some ailments were expected. They were so commonplace that they made the common cold look passé. But he couldn't remember any mounting symptoms of a greater, far more lethal illness ... at least, nothing to the degree that Olga had described.  
  
Slowly, he stood. He walked around the white room, his heart beating a bit more loudly than normal but certainly not racing. He closed his eyes as he walked – after all, there was nothing but the table to run into – and he allowed himself to feel his body, his metabolism, his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the faint whistle of inhaling the processing oxygen. Everything felt normal. He felt himself.  
  
Still, there was the sweat.  
  
It could be anything. Dr. Vukavitch had assured him that her team would run an entire battery of tests. She pledged to him that she wouldn't stop searching for any sign of illness – however large or small – so that, together, they could rule out any great fears. She was a good doctor, he surmised, by the way she spoke with him, hidden as she was behind the environmental suit. All of her aides had appeared that way – separated from human contact through the miracle of high quality latex isolation suits. They couldn't risk exposure, he knew. They couldn't jeopardize their own health, especially if they were the only people on the planet who could help him survive this ordeal.  
  
Still, there was the sweat.  
  
He told himself that it was nothing. He convinced himself that it was all in his mind. 'Nerves,' he rationalized the subtle drips. 'Nothing more but a case of the nerves.' He had led a long, healthy, good, and rewarding life, and – if there were a God in Heaven – the Almighty wouldn't allow for Ebdon Finkle to end his streak of success this way. That wasn't the way the Cosmos were wired. That wasn't what Ebdon Finkle was raised to believe. He would continue to believe what he did until that nice Dr. Vukavitch told him otherwise. Then, if she brought bad news, he would fall on his knees and pray ... pray like he had never prayed before. He would ask forgiveness for himself, and he would ask forgiveness for Frank Parker. After all, he never meant any ill will. Simply, Parker did not know the consequences of what could happen.  
  
Still, there was the sweat.  
  
"Don't do that to yourself, old man," Finkle spoke, more for the benefit of his own ears than it was his sanity. "There's absolutely no reason to fear the worst. The doctor has run her tests, and now it's up to science. Doctors can do all kinds of things these days. They can look at the small atoms – the smallest microbes – and they can even clone sheep. If anyone can help me now, it's a doctor. A government doctor."  
  
Suddenly, he heard the hissing of a broken seal. He turned to where he had learned the door was protected, shielding by ultra-tight pressurization, and he watched the thick metal door with the pure white face open slowly. A pale-suited figure with protective headgear and a respirator stepped through the opening, and he immediately recognized the shapely figure to be that of Olga Vukavitch. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her. She walked up to the old man, one hand gripping the other, and she stared into his eyes.  
  
Finkle swallowed hard.  
  
She didn't have to say a word. Her expression told him everything that he needed to know, and, in that moment, Ebdon Finkle realized that there were far worse things to fear in the world than the Devil himself.  
  
End of Chapter 22 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23  
  
Six Days, Seven Hours, Thirty-One Minutes  
  
"I don't believe it," Mentnor muttered, barely audible, as he approached the wall of glass. He stared into the containment room, studying the smiling face of the man beyond his reach. "I'm seeing it with my own two eyes, but, sure as I can feel the ground beneath my feet, I know that this is virtually impossible."  
  
"Yeah, I seem to be getting an awful lot of that today, Isaac!" Parker cried, laughing, pressing himself up against the cold glass. "If it's all the same to you, however, I'll be the first to say that it's awfully good to see your face."  
  
"Well," the scientist began, arching an eyebrow, "I did say that your being here was only 'virtually' impossible, Frank." He grew silent, quietly studying the other man's features, glancing into the chrononaut's deep, dark eyes. "Ever since I began my tenure with BackStep, I've had to constantly rethink the definition of what is and what is not even remotely 'possible.'" Cautiously, he placed his fingertips to the glass. Parker did the same, mirroring their two hands in a gesture of friendship. "Then again, Frank Parker pushed even that definition beyond the limits of what I ever thought was capable."  
  
"Then you know that it's me?"  
  
Slowly, the white-haired man nodded. "Trust me," he replied. "Knowing you the way that I do, I know that there is no possible way it could be anyone else."  
  
"Do you see, Bradley? Do you see? I told you that Isaac would know it was me!"  
  
The director stepped up to where the two men were locked in conversation. "There was never a doubt in my mind that Isaac would conclude otherwise, Frank."  
  
"Then you have to let me out of here!"  
  
"Take it easy."  
  
"Absolutely not!" Mentnor suddenly barked. "As much as it pains me to say so, I'm afraid that there's only one place you're going, Frank, and that's back in that damned Sphere. As soon as we can get your craft fueled, you'll be BackStepping out of here!"  
  
Taken aback, Parker moved away from the wall.  
  
"Isaac?" he asked. "What? What is it? What's wrong?"  
  
Glaring at Talmadge, the scientist demanded, "Did you tell him?"  
  
"No, I haven't."  
  
"Told me what?" Parker demanded.  
  
"You have to tell him."  
  
"I was waiting for you to get here."  
  
"Tell me what?" the chrononaut pressed. "You guys! Stop talking about me as if I'm not here! I'm standing in front of you! Tell me whatever it is the hell you need to tell me, and then let me out of this cage so I can complete my mission!"  
  
Mentnor pivoted, fixing his eyes on the captured younger man. "Frank, I want you to listen to me. Bradley should have already told you this, but I guess he's leaving the Devil's work to me!"  
  
"Now," Talmadge interrupted, "wait just a minute, Isaac ..."  
  
Ignoring the director's protests, the man continued: "Frank, the fabric of the universe is a far more fragile tapestry than any of us associated to Project BackStep ever conceived. I didn't see it. Ballard didn't see it. Of course, the pencil-pushers at the NSA never suspected it. Even Bradley didn't see it ... not that it was ever his job to look. That's what he had John and me for, but, near the end, John and I disagreed over the mathematical probabilities of parallel universes, quantum physics, and the extraordinarily unique relationship between time and space."  
  
"Whoa!" Parker threw up his hands. "Cool the science, Isaac. I'm the guy on the horse. Granted, it's a Triple Crown winner no one on the planet ever dreamed of, but I'm still just the jockey."  
  
"That's what we thought, Frank," Mentnor explained, taking his hand away from the wall as he started to pace in front of the younger man. "That's what all of us thought ... from the very beginning. But that's the kind of thinking that should have long ago killed this program! Everyone involved with it should have been re-assigned to other classified projects ... or, better yet, all of us should've been directed to find a way to avert the use of such technology given the potential threat it posed to mankind."  
  
"Threat?" Parker asked. "Isaac? What are you talking about?" Pointing at the director, he tried, "Bradley said it himself a little while ago. He told me that I couldn't begin to imagine the number of lives traveling through time has affected, but you're talking like I'm the AntiChrist!"  
  
"Even that would be a favorable alternative!"  
  
Abruptly, Talmadge slapped his hand against the glass. "Dammit, Isaac! That's enough!"  
  
"I'm just getting started!"  
  
"No, you're not!" Talmadge countered. "If you think that I brought you here so that you personally lecture me about my responsibility to maintaining some kind of temporal directive, then you're sorely misguided and sadly mistaken. You and I have had that debate too many times. If you'd like, then we can have again ... when it's far more convenient! Right now, I need your expertise in temporal theory, and, if you can forgive the irony, I need it fast." Gesturing at the containment wall, he pressed, "As you can see, the man behind that glass is Frank Parker. Is he the Frank Parker born and bred in our universe? No, he's not. Frank already understands that. That much, I've made perfectly clear. As to the fate of our chrononaut, I'll leave that to you to decide if it's vital information to this situation. But, as far as I'm concerned, now isn't the time." Talmadge walked over to where the scientist stood. "In my opinion, what he needs ... what I need ... is to understand exactly why he's here and how to get him back." Calming, the director sighed heavily. "Please, Isaac. John's gone. That leaves just you. You're the only one who can possibly make any sense of ... of this."  
  
Exhausted, Parker cried, "Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"  
  
Slowly, Mentnor approached the chamber wall. He noticed the chair – the one Bradley had used earlier – and sat in it.  
  
"Frank, you do understand that you've entered a parallel universe?"  
  
"Isaac, nothing else would account for these warm greetings, yours included."  
  
Ignoring the younger man's cynicism, Mentnor tried, "And you've been to one before?"  
  
"Like I told Bradley, I've been to them more times than I care to revisit," he answered. "All I want to know is how to get back home. I've a mission to complete, and, apparently, I'm not going to get much cooperation here."  
  
Calculatingly, Mentnor held up his two hands. Using his forefingers and thumbs, he made an oblong box for the chrononaut to see. "In the fabric of time and space, John and I grew certain of one constant: two timelines were never to meet. Still, we invented a term for just such a theoretical phenomenon. We called the event a 'parallel convergence.' What it means is simple: two timelines – two Earths with histories of extraordinarily similar events – would chronologically become a threat to one another."  
  
"How so?" Parker asked.  
  
Suddenly, the scientist collapsed the rectangle he had made from his hands. "Annihilation. See, Frank, two timelines with histories so similar to one another would be like two weights lying in the same cosmic blanket. Eventually, as the timelines grew even more and more similar, the weights would roll closer together. As events took place, these weights would become indistinguishable from one another. They'd merge for the sake of temporal supremacy. You've heard the saying that two heads are better than one? Well, think of this as the precise opposite. One world – in the fabric of time – was better than two. After all, two timelines that eventually grew identical would rule out the need for both worlds to exist. One universe would be the result. John – well, that is to say the John Ballard of our universe – always liked to call Time a predator that fed upon itself. Hungry with an insatiable appetite, Time wouldn't allow two universes so similar in people, places, and events to exist simultaneously. So, Time would mend the fabric, feed on itself, and force these two timelines to converge."  
  
"But," Parker tried, attempting to put the pieces of the cosmic puzzle together on his own, "what about those differences between the two timelines? I mean ... we're talking about whole worlds here, Isaac. I'm not a rocket scientist, but even I know that, mathematically, there's no way the two timelines could be completely identical?"  
  
Mentnor smiled, but he didn't reveal any happy sentiments. Parker had seen it before. It was a smile reserved for funerals.  
  
"That's a very wise observation, Frank, one I had many times in my debates with John." Suddenly, his face lost all expression. "In theory, whichever timeline won would wreck havoc with disparate elements of the other world."  
  
"Wreck havoc?" Parker thought about the possibility for a long moment. "You mean ... Isaac, do you mean there would be massive deaths? People who existed in one timeline but not the other ... they'd have to be ... they'd have to be eliminated?"  
  
"Yes," Mentnor agreed. "Plagues. Famines. Floods. Even mass suicide. Whatever it took, Time would see those elements not belonging in the converged world were wiped clean, eradicated from existence itself." He raised an eyebrow. "Biblical, I suppose you could say. Ballard and I often argued about what the possible religious implications could be to such a theory as parallel convergence, but conceptualizing the miraculous, the divine was never one of our collective specialties."  
  
"And this is what you think has happened, Isaac?" Talmadge asked.  
  
After a pause, the white haired man shook his head. "No," he answered simply. "As I said, this was all theory. This was rhetorical debate between two scientists pushing one another to reach solutions that challenged perception. Even with the Sphere, we had practical means of proving the possibility of parallel convergence, not that we'd ever want to. However, based upon our shared understanding of temporal mechanics, we still believed convergence was a very likely possibility." Then, he held up his rectangle again for both of them to see. "What I think has happened here is that Frank is from an alternate reality – an alternate timeline – and I do believe that our mutual histories – the people and events – are very similar. There are enough events that have occurred, are occurring, or will occur to allow for the two timelines to retain their unique individuality ... except for this." The man separated his hands, and he held up his forefingers.  
  
"Your fingers?" Parker asked.  
  
Mentnor smiled. "I have missed your sense of humor, Frank."  
  
"It was always my gift with the ladies."  
  
"A parallelogram," the scientist explained. "Our timelines are similar. I would risk a guess that they are very similar. In Frank's as well as ours, he was the first successful chrononaut. In Frank's as well as ours, Bradley Talmadge heads up a top secret time travel program known as BackStep. In Frank's as well as ours, the respective players – myself, John, Olga, Ramsey, Donovan – are all in place."  
  
"Would those elements automatically presuppose that our timelines could converge?" Talmadge tried.  
  
"Bradley, anything is possible in this great big universe of ours," Mentnor conceded, "but I don't think that's what we're presently experiencing." He lowered his hands. "What I believe – and, of course, this is predicated on only a very limited understanding of what's gone on since my departure from the program – is that in Frank's timeline and in our own there are two events of such extraordinary temporal significance that our histories are uniquely linked by those events. One event – whatever it was – lies in our collective past. It serves as the catalyst, setting us on course for a true parallel existence. It's placed our two timelines at one end of the parallelogram. The other event – whatever it may be – has yet to happen, but ... but, Bradley, if you'll allow me a moment or two to explore a theory, I might be able to prove conclusively that this 'Frank Parker,' despite the dangers you and I know of crossing over into alternate realities, is meant to be here to help rectify the other end of the parallelogram."  
  
Talmadge grimaced. "Of all you've said, Isaac, I certainly hope you're right about that."  
  
Parker stood, staring at the two men, wondering what monumental event could possibly have brought the three of them – residents of differing versions of time and space – into destined contact with one another. Some of what Isaac had said made perfect sense: similar timelines being drawn to one another, acts of fates being linked across the spectrum of time travel, and the weight one person – or one event – can have on hundreds, thousands, and millions of lifetimes ... but what was it?  
  
"Frank," the man began, "tell me what happened – in your universe – of September 11, 2001?"  
  
End of Chapter 23 


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24  
  
*** At the same time ***  
  
Agent Alberto Ruiz always knew that – regardless of how placed he played the stateside intelligence game – his days were numbered.  
  
It was the nature of the business for the NSA. One day, you're working deep cover in joint collaboration with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and state law enforcement authorities, and the next your name is on the mob's 'most wanted' hit list. Your cover is blown, and you're now not only a risk to yourself – your family, your friends, your loved ones – but also you're a risk to the national security of the agency you've sworn an oath to serve. You're suddenly a fugitive in your own country, never knowing whom to trust or for how long.  
  
Could it be that the NSA assassinated their operatives? He had always known that – despite his high field rankings – he was expendable. What was it that Winston Churchill had said? "The graveyards are full of men who thought they weren't expendable." Or something like that. He accepted the truth as he moved up in a fast career path through the Agency ... quickly jumping in Black Ops once the opportunity presented itself ... quickly taking a desk job for the NSA at the recommendation of a senior officer ... and, now, serving as a 'cleaner' for covert ultra-sensitive government funded clandestine programs.  
  
Long ago, he had heard about BackStep. Granted, at that point, almost every possible 'black' program was a rumor. Time travel. Extraterrestrial visitation. Wormholes. Remote viewing. Multiple dimensions. For every conspiracy, there was an unheard of government committee, or, if it had a name, it was something incredibly benign ... like 'The Office for Interdepartmental Transportation.' Sure, it sounded like little more than a tax-payer sponsored travel agency, but, in reality, the men and women assigned to the office dealt almost exclusively in exploring and extrapolating on the hundreds of theories of traveling to alternate timelines. Had they been successful? Ruiz had no way of knowing, but the existence of an organized committee almost guaranteed an agenda, the agenda almost guaranteed testing, and testing almost guaranteed results ... positive or negative.  
  
Once aboard the NSA, he learned about Montauk, the Philadelphia Project, Roswell, Corona, Paperclip, Majik, as his post in stateside 'cleaning' required that he have what information was necessary to deny the existence of such programs. Of course, he couldn't prove any of the programs existed, and, if he was certain that they did exist, he couldn't prove any of them were active ... with the notable exception of the work associated to the events of the downed flying saucer outside of Roswell, New Mexico, back in 1947. Of that program, he had absolutely no doubt.  
  
Unfortunately, that program – he feared – was about to take his life.  
  
Motionless, he lay on the hospital bed, studying the endless folds of the plastic sheeting that surrounded his containment area. His ears attentive, he listened to the beep-beep-beep of his heart rate pulsing out courtesy of the bedside monitor. He felt the sting of needles stuck deep into his arms, feeding fluids – he had no idea what they were – into his bloodstream in an attempt to contain his collapse.  
  
Was it all a matter of time?  
  
He smirked at the thought.  
  
"Time," he whispered. "How ironic."  
  
A nurse wearing a CDC-issued protection suit stepped through the sheeting and up to his bedside. She smiled, and he noticed how genuine her expression was. Briefly, he recognized her from his work in the field, and then it dawned on him.  
  
"Agent Ruiz," Dr. Nina Welles said. "We meet again."  
  
"You were at the retrieval site," he recalled.  
  
Placing a heavily gloved hand on his forearm – a chill raced through his body – she glanced down at the various monitors. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Blinking from the sting of sweat in his eyes, he forced a smile on to his lips. He hated to appear weak around anyone, much less a woman as beautiful as she was. He took a deep breath, held out his chest, and exhaled, hoping that the motion would force his body to relax.  
  
"I always feel my best in the presence of a lady," he flirted coyly. "I feel especially interested when I'm in the presence of doctors."  
  
She patted his forearm, slowly taking it away to adjust a knob on one of the machines. "Now, now," she replied. "I wouldn't want to have the director write you up for sexually harassing the help, but I am glad that you're feeling strong enough to flirt. That's always a good sign. Especially with men. It guarantees that you have a strong pulse by saving me the effort to have to check." Turning back to him, she smiled. "Are you experiencing any pain?"  
  
Still blinking the salt from his eyes, he wished he could bring his hands up to rub them. Unfortunately, he was bound to the bed at the wrists and ankles. "A little, doctor, but nothing this morphine drip isn't helping under control."  
  
"Do you have the control so that you can self-medicate?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"The control," she repeated. Glancing across, she saw that his left hand gripped – in a kind of frozen desperation – the plunger that could increase the morphine into his own bloodstream. She guessed that, with even the aid of a crowbar, he wouldn't be letting that go.  
  
"Oh, this," he said. "Yes. I'm sorry. Yes, I do have it."  
  
"You know," she tried softly, "you can ease up on that piece of plastic." Again, she studied his eyes, hoping her kind words were bringing him some comfort. "It doesn't have any arms or legs. It isn't going anywhere. No one's going to take it away from you, agent."  
  
"Please, call me Alberto."  
  
She smiled. Suppressing her professional instincts, she reached up and gently stroked his sweat-covered hair. "Of course, Alberto. And I'd have to say that we have a winner! You're the first Alberto I've ever met."  
  
"I feel privileged."  
  
"I'm the one who should feel privileged, Alberto. You're doing God's work for your country. All I do is show up with a stethoscope. Every now and then, Uncle Sam throws me a bone and is more than happy to sign a paycheck. But you? You're a field agent. You get down and dirty when it counts the most. I feel humbled being allowed to stand in your presence."  
  
Nodding in the direction of the monitors, Ruiz wondered aloud, "What do the machines tell you, doctor?"  
  
"Nina," she offered. "If I'm calling you Alberto, then I don't want you feeling that you have to play rank on me, agent. Deal?"  
  
"Thank you, Nina."  
  
"These machines?" she began. "They're monitoring your heart rate. They're measuring your blood pressure. They're checking the balance of oxygen in your blood flow." She pursed her lips before concluding, "And I think you're smart enough and certainly man enough to know that they're telling me ... you're sick."  
  
He stared back at her, his eyes stinging suddenly from more than mere sweat.  
  
"But that's only what the machines tell me. What I need from you, Alberto, is to know how sick you really are."  
  
He thought for a moment. Not wanting to appear weak, he stated flatly, "I'm having some chest pain. It's not constant, though. It comes and goes."  
  
"Sharp pains?" she asked. "Or is it more of a dull ache?"  
  
"Sharp. Very sharp."  
  
"Center of the chest or all around?"  
  
"All around, really."  
  
"But they come and go?"  
  
"Yes," he answered.  
  
"Are you feeling any pain now?"  
  
"No. Not right now."  
  
She nodded. "What else can you tell me?"  
  
"I have some dizziness," he confided. "But, like the pain, it comes and goes. You know? How do I explain this?" He glanced up. "Those plastic curtains? Occasionally, they're spinning when I look at them, and they remind me of waves in the ocean."  
  
"That's because of your fever."  
  
"Yes, I know I have a fever. I can tell from the sweat," he reasoned. "As a little boy, when I'd get sick, my mother always used to call me her 'little dripper.'" Glancing up toward his forehead, he added, "I can tell by the water flow that this is more than the ordinary fever, though."  
  
"Yes, it is," she confessed.  
  
"How high is my temperature, Nina?"  
  
She grimaced slightly. "You appear to holding steady around 103."  
  
"Is that bad?"  
  
"It isn't good," she replied honestly, "but I suspect it's going to get worse."  
  
He nodded. "I know what's happening, Nina. It's okay. You don't have to hide anything from me. I want you to tell me the truth. I'll tell you what I can because I hope that ... maybe ... well, maybe something that I tell you will give you some clue as to how to go about keeping this from happening ... to the others."  
  
She tilted her head. "There are others sick, too, Alberto."  
  
"How many?"  
  
Sighing, she explained, "Nine."  
  
"Nine?" he asked, incredulous.  
  
She laid her hand on his head, stroking his temple with her thumb. "At present, nine. There are a few others who are showing some initial symptoms, but their symptoms haven't – and they don't appear to be – manifesting into anything greater than a viral reaction." Holding back what she wanted to say, she instead offered, "It's far too soon to tell, Alberto. Even for yourself. Let the doctors here do the work. You relax. You've earned it."  
  
"Don't kid me, Nina," he warned softly.  
  
"I wouldn't do that."  
  
"I've seen what happens," he said, a hint of emotion breaking in his voice. "I know that it kills quickly. I've seen it happen. I knew the risks when I went into the field to recover Parker, and I wouldn't have done anything any differently."  
  
Fiery needles suddenly wracked his chest, and he lunged in bed. The straps about his wrists and ankles kept him stable. Impulsively, he squeezed the button and took another injection of morphine into his bloodstream.  
  
"That look like it hurt, Alberto."  
  
Weakly, he smiled. "I've had worse."  
  
She nodded. "That's my boy." Leaning close, she ruffled his hair. "That's exactly the kind of spirit I want to hear from any patient in this ward. Promise me you'll stay with us?"  
  
The pain returned as quickly as it had washed over him only seconds before. He bit his lip, his chin trembling under the sensation, and then the needles were gone.  
  
"Nina, I give you my word ... man to woman ... I'll do the best I can ... until the very end."  
  
End of Chapter 24 


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25  
  
*** At the same time ***  
  
Content behind the wheel of his silver BMW Z4 Roadster, Craig Donovan didn't have a care in the world.  
  
Moments ago, his life was at stake, his head crushed to a marble counter under the weight of a thug and his loaded weapon, but now, with the wind in his hair and the sun rising in the sky, all he could think about was 'the drive.' He loved being behind the wheel. He didn't have to be driving fast. As far as he was concerned, he could've been searching for some dive on the city side streets, crawling at five miles per hour, and he'd still be perfectly happy. It was about control. It was, always, about control. He was due at the NSA within the hour, but the seemingly endless parade of meetings after meetings after meetings over the last several months had begun to wear on his patience. Homeland Security was barking up a tree. The Secret Service wasn't happy with much of the latest 'intel' surrounding investigations of threats made against the First Family. Several old friends at the Pentagon were calling him daily, trying to coerce him into a comfy desk job over at their old haunt. The opportunities were endless, but all Donovan wanted to do was drive his beautiful car. Since he accepted assignment to the Washington, D.C., he found it insensible to reliving the past. In this world – the place beyond BackSteph – the past remained the past. Once he severed ties with the BackStep Program, he quickly learned never to give 'the past' a second thought.  
  
On his hip, his Blackberry vibrated. He snatched it up quickly and read:  
  
'Simon. Call. Now.'  
  
"Ouch," he replied.  
  
The director wasn't nearly as amiable as Bradley Talmadge was. In fact, Donovan didn't much care for Terrence Simon's attitude toward Talmadge, the BackStep Program, or any of the hundreds of successful missions Donovan had been a part of. For all he knew, Simon had an axe to grind with Bradley – maybe the man was in line for directing BackStep at one time. All that mattered to Terrence Simon in this brave new world was following orders, and he made it perfectly clear that Donovan's devil-may-care attitude wouldn't sit well with the NSA's D.C. Bureau. Despite his desire to ignore the message, Donovan snatched his cell from his jacket breast pocket and speed-dialed his boss's direct line. It rang twice before the man answered.  
  
"I hear you're doing your part to serve and protect," he heard.  
  
"Just making a deposit," Donovan replied.  
  
"Craig, the stunt you pulled this morning only proves you're a pain in the ass to all of the greater D.C. area police enforcement."  
  
"Despite what you've been told, I had nothing to do with that," the black man tried.  
  
"Yes. Apparently, you never do."  
  
"Wrong place," Donovan stated matter-of-factly, "wrong time."  
  
"That's precisely what is written word-for-word throughout your personnel file, Donovan. You really should stick to your own side of the street, if you know what I mean? I can't keep bailing you out, even if your track record stays as strong as it is."  
  
"The way I see it, Terry," the man argued, "I did the police a favor. I did the bank a favor. Hell, I even did the crooks a favor, but I'm not expecting any commendations. Those guys had guns, and the one at the door was itching for a reason to pull his trigger. I made sure that, when it happened, the man was taken down." He sighed heavily. "Look, I know I've not been around the block as many times as you have, but I keep hearing rumors that there used to be a time when stepping up and putting your life on the line actually meant something to the NSA. I guess those days went the way of the dodo."  
  
"Spoken like a true pacifist."  
  
"Since when have you known me to ever toe the line?"  
  
"My thoughts, exactly."  
  
"So here I am. You wanted me to call. I'm calling."  
  
"And where, precisely, is here? You're not canvassing other banks, are you?"  
  
"I'm in the car," he confessed.  
  
"Hi ho, silver."  
  
"I'm on the way to the office, Terry."  
  
"How close are you?"  
  
"I'm about fifteen minutes out." Donovan knew that his boss wouldn't order an immediate telephone response without some serious reason, but he was confused as to why the director was bantering with him. "What? Did you need me to pick up some doughnuts, or did you want me to get there faster?"  
  
"After this morning's heroics, I doubt that the D.C. road patrol would repay the favor by not writing you a speeding ticket, so, no, save the heroics for some other date and time," Simon explained. "What I need for you to do is get in contact with Nathan Ramsey. He and Bradley Talmadge called here looking for you. Talmadge was off to other things, so he asked that you contact Ramsey. I told him I'd have you return the favor."  
  
"Ramsey?" Donovan asked, carefully swerving around a large freight truck that was moving far too slowly for a late morning commute. "Did he say what he wanted?"  
  
"He didn't say," Simon answered, "I didn't ask. You know that I'm not particularly fond of your previous stint on BackStep, so I left it alone. But Bradley did ask me to pass along one word."  
  
"One word?"  
  
"Yes," he heard. "Conundrum."  
  
All of his muscles reacting, Donovan slammed on the brakes. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he screeched his car thirty, forty, fifty, sixty feet to a dead stop in the middle of traffic. As the effects of inertia passed, he glanced around. Cars – sedans and compacts and SUVs, their horns blaring angrily – banked around him, swerving to avoid collisions with his BMW and one another. Staring straight ahead, he sat back in the bucket seat, a thin bead of sweat forming on his brow.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
Conundrum.  
  
"Craig!" Simon yelled into his ear. "Craig, are you there?"  
  
What the hell ...?  
  
"Simon, you're certain that's what they said?" Donovan asked.  
  
"Are you all right?" the man demanded. "I thought I heard the sound of a car careening out of control."  
  
"That was me."  
  
"You? What happened?"  
  
Ignoring the question, Donovan said, "Simon, I know you don't give a rat's ass for Bradley, but I swear ... I swear that, if you're screwing around with me, then I'll put in for a transfer to the Pentagon faster than you can hang up this telephone!"  
  
"Take it easy, Craig. Take it easy! That's what they told me to tell you," the man droned in his authoritative voice, "and now I've told you."  
  
"Conundrum?" he asked disbelievingly.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
It wasn't possible.  
  
"Craig, what more can I help you with?"  
  
Conundrum?!?!  
  
"Craig, listen to me: it's wasn't a request," Simon explained. "It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. I reminded them that you no longer worked with the BackStep Program, but apparently Bradley Talmadge has Jetsetter's ear on this one."  
  
Jetsetter?  
  
"The President?" Donovan pried. "You're telling me ... you're telling me that Bradley's order came down from the President of the United States?"  
  
"That's a question you're going to have to find an answer to on your own, Craig," Simon confessed. "In the meantime, I for one have serious work to do. It would seem you do, as well. Make the call. Report in to me once you know where you're going to be heading for the next wild ride of your life."  
  
End of Chapter 25 


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26  
  
Six Days, Seven Hours, Twenty Minutes  
  
A chill had come over him, but there wasn't a thing Frank Parker could do about adjusting the thermostat. As a matter of fact, his containment cell didn't have one. If it did, he would've cranked up the heat a notch or two at the mention of one of the darkest days in recent memory.  
  
"September 11th?" he asked. "Isaac, you're talking about ... you're talking about 'the' September 11th, right?"  
  
Calmly, the man nodded. "Yes, Frank. I'd like you to tell me what happened on that day ... in your continuum." Squinting at the chrononaut, he tried, "Might I guess by your reluctance to discuss it that this day holds some special meaning in the annals of catastrophe?"  
  
"No," Parker replied honestly. "That's not it. I'll discuss it. I'll tell you everything you want to know." Concentrating, he drew in a quick breath, trying to figure out where to possibly begin. "Terrorists," he started, siphoning through the pool of thoughts, "Islamic extremists, really, took control of several airliners." He frowned. Had it really been ... had it really been that long ago? The images flickered in his mind like an old reel of sixteen millimeter film played on a blank wall.  
  
"Frank?" Talmadge said softly. "Please. Isaac needs to know everything."  
  
The man grimaced. "These terrorists ... they crashed these planes into buildings."  
  
"Which buildings, Frank?" Mentnor prodded.  
  
"Two of them were used to bring down the World Trade Center," he replied flatly, swallowing hard at the memory of collapsing steel and glass. "One hit the first tower, and, about twenty or thirty minutes later, a second plane hit the other one. Both of the towers collapsed under the stress of intense heat." He realized his expression – his eyes, mostly – had glazed over. "Thousands of people died, Isaac. They ... there was nothing that any of us could do." He shook off the chills and continued. "A third plane ... that went down in Pennsylvania. The theory was ... well, nothing has ever been proven, but the theory was that several of the passengers managed to ... to storm the cockpit, overpower the terrorists, and they downed the plane. In a field. In the middle of nowhere ... one of the passengers was on the phone, and he was in touch with his wife, and she told him about the Twin Towers, and he ... he and some of the others rushed the cockpit. From there, who knows?" He fought the urge to walk away from the glass and seek refuge in the plastic chair. He needed to stand. He needed to finish the story. Something – some event yet to unfold in this timeline – depended on it.  
  
"There was a fourth plane," he told them. "Not long after the Trade Center was hit, this plane crashed into the Pentagon." Slowly, he shook his head. He knew some of the people in the building that had died in the attack. Granted, he didn't know them very well, but, in his years of service as a Navy Seal, he met some people, and those people moved up the chain of command to take positions at the Pentagon – what was long thought to be the nation's safest, most secure building. "Luckily, the plane came in at a low altitude, so it didn't destroy the entire facility. It ... basically, it struck the building very close to its foundation." Again, he swallowed, forcing the bile rising in his throat back down into his stomach. "Everything happened so quickly. No one ... not any of us ... no one ever imagined it was possible."  
  
Talmadge shook his head. "How many died?"  
  
"Thousands," Parker answered. He brushed his hand along his left temple – was he sweating? "Too many, Bradley, any way you look at it. New York. Washington. And Pennsylvania. Too many people."  
  
Despite the disgust he felt over hearing of such atrocity, Mentnor stayed perfectly still, focused on obtaining as much information as possible. "And what did you do about it?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes," the old man replied. "I would assume – with a tragedy of that magnitude – that the NSA authorized an immediate BackStep in order to keep this event from ever happening?"  
  
There was the chill again, followed by the sensation of sweat. Parker turned, took a few steps, and found the chair. He moved it near the glass and sat down, his entire body sagging into its cup.  
  
Finally, he stated, "I didn't do anything."  
  
Talmadge cleared his throat. "How is that possible, Frank?"  
  
"Bradley, look," the chrononaut began, "you have to understand. As soon as it became clear that what had happened wasn't any random accident, the President was placed aboard Air Force One and flown to a secure location where he eventually released a statement to the American people. I mean ... think of it ... our country was not the streets of Beirut. We don't live like people do in the back alleys of Iraq or Afghanistan. We're the United States! These kinds of things ... they just didn't happen here! The government was starting from scratch! Sure, there were contingencies for certain attacks, but ... but what we experienced was entirely unprecedented."  
  
"What did the NSA eventually do?"  
  
Parker sunk deeper into the chair.  
  
"Frank?"  
  
"They told us ... no," he said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"They told us 'absolutely not,' 'under no circumstances,' 'stay put,'" the man spat through his teeth. "Those ... those bastards wouldn't let me even go back seven days to put the airports on high alert."  
  
"How is that possible?" Talmadge asked.  
  
"It's like I said, Bradley," Parker tried, hoping he could make sense of the events today more than he could when they had happened. "We didn't know what we were dealing with. We didn't know with whom. By the time ... by the time the intelligence came through, our options were extraordinarily limited." Slowly, he shook his head. "I think ... I think, to a certain degree, the NSA was afraid that sending me back in any attempt to stop what went wrong might've caused something far worse, if that's even a possibility." He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders when he said, "I think, for the first time, the NSA was terrified at the prospect of how a BackStep could go so incredibly wrong that they tied our hands. They shut us down."  
  
Mentnor tilted his head. "And what happened next?"  
  
Parker sighed. "There was ... there was an awful lot of intelligence gathering. The focus shifted from an immediate military response – we didn't know precisely who was behind it for a short while – to gathering intel. Every agent from every agency who had ever dealt in the world of spies was called up. Every favor was called in. We gathered data for weeks, and, eventually, we learned who was responsible ... and we went after the bastards."  
  
The three of them remained perfectly silent for a very long time.  
  
"I guess it's safe to say," Parker finally broke up the respectful quiet, "that 9/11 didn't happen in this timeline?"  
  
Mentnor and Talmadge looked at one another.  
  
"What?" the chrononaut tried. "What happened?"  
  
Still, no one spoke.  
  
"Come on, Bradley!" he protested. "You two are staring at one another like you're looking at ghosts! What the hell is it? What happened here?"  
  
Talmadge lowered his eyes, staring at the floor. He couldn't look the intrepid chrononaut in the face, and Parker wondered what that meant.  
  
"No, Frank," the director eventually succumbed. "We're not looking at ghosts. We're ... we're thinking about them. Of course, 9/11 happened here, just as it did in your timeline. I think – as Isaac has theorized – that 9/11 is one of the two events of temporal significance that are somehow tying our different realities into this parallelism." He shuffled, still not glancing up from the floor. "Those planes were hijacked, and all of those people died. Yes, the President went into hiding for a brief period – that's a staple of almost all tactical responses in the event of similar catastrophes. I've read many scenarios that have come down from FEMA and even some from the NSA. I think even the CIA has several outlines for what they term 'temporary government procedures' in the event of a terrorist strike, but I can't be certain on that one." Slowly, the man stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. "Much like what happened in your world, we were placed into a lockdown situation, but I might be able to shed some light on the NSA's logic. I don't think it was so much that they were afraid what consequences would result from a BackStep so much as they were concerned that ... well, to put it bluntly, I think they were concerned that Never Never Land was a possible terrorist target."  
  
Parker gasped. "You're kidding me!"  
  
"No, Frank, I'm not," he continued. "At least, that's the directive as it came down through the proper channels to me. The world was in chaos. Thousands of our civilians had just died on global television, Frank. Any bureaucracy's natural response is to close their borders ... to circle the wagons ... to make sure the Homeland is safe ... and that's what the Committee ordered. We locked up our doors tighter than I ever thought would ever happen ... for seven days."  
  
"What?" Parker rose from his chair. "What happened on the seventh day?"  
  
Finally, Talmadge met the young man face-to-face.  
  
"You did."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"You, Frank," the director continued. "You did what you do. You broke past the barricade. Ballard powered up all systems. Olga and Donovan prepped you for the BackStep, and I?" He smiled, and, for a moment, Parker thought he saw a hint of mischievous youth in the man's grizzled expression. "I disobeyed a direct order."  
  
Parker again placed his hands against the cold glass. "Oh, something tells me I'm not going to like to hear this."  
  
"You went back there, Frank," Mentnor continued telling the story – one far too difficult for Talmadge to finish alone. "We did as the NSA wanted, but, on that seventh day, you called us to the conference room, and you did what you've done so many times before. You convinced us that not doing anything – sitting by while we had the technology to try something – was a far greater crime than those committed by those men who flew those planes." He shifted in his chair, growing uncomfortable with the memories of the fateful day. "Unfortunately, we were all stubborn, and you ended up having only moments to get back seven days in order to change anything. But ... change things you did."  
  
"See, Frank," Talmadge took over once more, "as you well know, the Sphere is as much about traveling through matter as it is through time. After all, the Sphere itself is a solid mass, and the energy it takes to accomplish such a feat ... oh, I don't need to remind you what it takes." He pulled one hand from his pocket and scratched as his beard. "We had only seconds to spare, Frank, so you did the only thing possible: you teleported the Sphere directly into the path of that first plane."  
  
Again, Parker grew cold.  
  
"You mean ...?"  
  
"Yes," the director answered the question before it could be asked. "You sacrificed yourself ... and the Sphere ... in order to keep this country safe."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"That pilot didn't know what hit him," Talmadge let slip his reply with a restless laugh. "The first plane exploded out over the Atlantic. Of course, our national defenses were immediately alerted. The NTSB issued an alert, and those other planes eventually were brought down – gunned down, actually – and the casualties were kept to a minimum."  
  
"But people still died?"  
  
"Frank, when you're dealing with terrorists," Talmadge offered, "you can't avert death. It's their principal weapon. When all is said and done, it's really all they have to use against us."  
  
"Six hundred lives, Frank," Mentnor explained, "in exchange for what would have been thousands. There are very few times in my life that I've ever agreed in trading a life for a life, but, given the circumstances, there was nothing more that you – that any of us – could have done."  
  
"But," Parker persisted, "people still died."  
  
"And they're still dying, Frank," Talmadge reasoned. "They're dying every day from terrorist attacks around the world. You can't BackStep every time some lunatic straps some C4 to his chest and walks into a café during the lunch hour in Israel. You can't hop back in time and keep every bullet in every gun, every gun in every holster. BackStep was never intended to cease all catastrophes. We fought the battles we knew we statistically had a chance of winning, and there's no reason to think that any of us made the wrong choices. Ever."  
  
"Statistically?" Parker spit the word out of his mouth as though it were spoiled meat. "Bradley, since when did any of us ever give a damn about the statistical chance of righting a wrong?"  
  
"As far as I'm concerned," the man countered, "every time we took that chance and allowed you to BackStep."  
  
"And what good was it?" the chrononaut demanded. "Look what it cost us! Six hundred lives! Probably hundreds more in the military action that followed! And the Sphere! How could I have been so stupid as to destroy the only ability we had to ever make a difference?"  
  
To his surprise, Parker looked over at the director and found him with a customary wry smile.  
  
"That," Talmadge said, "is where this story really gets interesting."  
  
END of Chapter 26  
  
End of Chapter 26 


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27  
  
** At the same time **  
  
Sitting in the rear of his stretch limo, Arthur Pendley pinched his thumb and forefinger to the bridge between his eyes, trying desperately to suppress a sudden migraine. "That sonovabitch," he muttered under his breath. "If I'm not careful, he's going to ruin everything." His visit in the coffee shop – albeit brief – had ended as he expected. Unfortunately, terrorists had grown even more unpredictable over the last few years, and Pendley refused to risk the valuable assets he had personally spent the last three years amassing on someone as reckless, as impudent, and as impulsive as the brash but effective Richard DeMarco. When he returned to the car, he entertained the idea of sending Kaminsky – his driver – back into the coffee shop with explicit instructions to put a bullet into both of DeMarco's dark eyes ... but his allegiance to maintaining the secrets of the Faction kept him from issuing such an unprecedented directive. Clearly, such an assassination in such a public place would draw the attention of investigators from multiple states, multiple government agencies, and the line of red tape – though very long and very thin – could still possibly wind back to him. That was a risk he couldn't take, not with the approaching transaction.  
  
After he calmed himself, he retrieved his laptop from the opposite seat and opened the pad, instantly accessing his protected wireless messaging program. His laptop pinged, and he realized he had established a secure connection. He brought his slim, white, wrinkled fingers to the keyboard and began typing:  
  
PEND: DeMarco is in America.  
  
He breathed easily, waiting for the reply. Glancing out the window, he studied the passing traffic until his computer pinged a second time. The instant messaging screen had come to life, and he read:  
  
AMIR: When did he arrive?  
  
PEND: Yesterday.  
  
AMIR: Is he alone?  
  
PEND: So far as I know.  
  
AMIR: How did this happen?  
  
PEND: He is independent, leaderless. He has been since the death of his mother. He goes where he likes. There is no stopping him.  
  
AMIR: There is always a way to stop one man acting alone.  
  
PEND: The environment wasn't conducive.  
  
AMIR: This is unacceptable.  
  
PEND: You are overreacting.  
  
AMIR: You assured me of our privacy.  
  
PEND: I have told no one.  
  
AMIR: You gave us your word that Project Kupher would not catch his interest.  
  
PEND: I do not know that it did.  
  
AMIR: He is your terrorist. How could it not?  
  
PEND: DeMarco serves the Faction. He is not my personal employee.  
  
AMIR: Then why is he here?  
  
PEND: I don't know. He spoke nothing of Kupher.  
  
AMIR: It could be his deception.  
  
Pendley sighed. He knew that dissention was taking a toll on the Faction. Amir was perfectly correct. The buildup of rogue agents had gone on for far too long, and, as a result of flawed leadership, most of these assassins were no longer serving the collective good of the Illuminati. In fact, most of them – Demarco included, he assumed – were operating from personal agendas or vendettas that put the entire organization in jeopardy of exposure. Once the Faction was discovered, the NSA would be placed on high alert. Agents would be combing the country in search of key operatives with specific knowledge of Project Kupher. That, Arthur Pendley couldn't allow.  
  
PEND: Amir, I will be perfectly clear. I am not responsible for every rogue talent the Faction employs. You knew the risks. I have protected you against those risks. DeMarco has nothing to do with Project Kupher.  
  
AMIR: You were responsible for his selection.  
  
PEND: I haven't spoken with him in years.  
  
AMIR: You were responsible for his training.  
  
PEND: I selected those who would train him.  
  
AMIR: Then you know him best.  
  
PEND: I do.  
  
AMIR: But you do not know his mission?  
  
PEND: He did not say. I did not ask.  
  
AMIR: Do you have an idea?  
  
Pendley grimaced. Amir maintained connections with the elite, powerful, ranking men and woman of the Illuminati, and the old man didn't want to find himself explaining DeMarco's sudden appearance in the United States to the High Council.  
  
That he knew, no one questioned by the Order of the High Council ever left such a meeting alive.  
  
PEND: I have several ideas.  
  
AMIR: And what of Kupher?  
  
PEND: I do not believe that Kupher is at risk. I do not believe DeMarco knows anything.  
  
AMIR: Need any of these "ideas" concern me?  
  
PEND: At present, they do not.  
  
AMIR: You will alert me if this changes.  
  
He understood all too well the man's concern. However, the grim reality was that there was very little he could do – short of offering his assurances – to belay such discomfort. DeMarco was a hazard. He had always been a risk. Pendley knew that when he selected the young man for training. He knew it as he watched DeMarco progress rapidly through the Faction's conditioning programs. And he especially knew it with the man's impressive 'kill record.' Within the ranks of Illuminati agents, DeMarco's skills were legendary and without rival.  
  
Eventually, he typed:  
  
PEND: Regardless of his mission, DeMarco is of no concern.  
  
AMIR: I will inform the Elders.  
  
PEND: That would be premature.  
  
AMIR: It is protocol.  
  
PEND: Protocol can be foolish.  
  
AMIR: The Elders would not agree.  
  
PEND: It is unlikely that the Elders would support Kupher.  
  
The message screen froze for several moments. Pendley trusted that he had bluntly spelled out the reality for his partner. He imagined that Amir was slowly weighing the consequences of inactivity.  
  
AMIR: Do I have your word?  
  
PEND: I have already given it.  
  
Again, for several moments, Pendley sat staring at a blinking cursor. He knew that Amir was processing the entirety of their conversation. Undoubtedly, the man configured scenarios, calculated whether or not their long-established trust outweighted the possible dangers, Pendley would expect no less.  
  
AMIR: I will trust you.  
  
PEND: That is wise.  
  
AMIR: You will terminate DeMarco if he proves a risk.  
  
PEND: I have the personnel to make that happen if it becomes prudent.  
  
AMIR: We will meet tonight.  
  
PEND: I will show you the progress we have made. I think you will be very pleased.  
  
AMIR: I have been so far.  
  
PEND: You are most gracious.  
  
AMIR: Will you meet our deadline?  
  
PEND: I am ahead of schedule.  
  
AMIR: That is ironic, no?  
  
PEND: I agree.  
  
Satisfied, Pendley closed his laptop and laid the unit on the seat beside him.  
  
"We're arriving, sir," Kaminsky said, turning his head from the driver's seat. His pale face hung like a white cloud in the dark interior of the limo. "Will you be entering through the front?"  
  
"No, Matthew," the older man said. "Drive around the back, if you please. I'd prefer to use the staff entrance."  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
Kaminsky weaved the vehicle through the light traffic, taking a slight curve past the golden-laced ornate marquee that read 'Heston Tower.'  
  
*****  
  
From his position – three cars back in traffic – DeMarco watched as Pendley's limousine slipped into the alley and disappeared around the tall, impressive, red brick building. Stretching his neck, he barely made out the name on the marquee. Quickly, he fumbled for an ink pen and grabbed it from the seat beside him. In haste, he jotted down the name and address on his bare wrist. Pulling over, he eased his car into the parking lane and sat behind the wheel, studying the tall building, the engine purring all the while.  
  
"So ... this is where you've been hiding your new toy, eh, Arthur?"  
  
End of Chapter 27 


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28  
  
** At the same time **  
  
Startling her, Nina Welles heard the heart monitor tracking Agent Alberto Ruiz suddenly buzz to life. The alarm was a constant ring – a high- tech manufactured howl. Glancing over at the display, she read that the man's heart had 'flat-lined.' Ruiz's blood pressure dropped rapidly, and she knew – without question – that this was it. The agent was dying. Over the last few minutes, as she stayed at his bedside, his temperature had risen, cresting at 108 degrees. He dripped of sweat as his breathing grew more and more shallow. When he had begun fading out of speech with her, despite her best attempts to keep him awake and talking, she knew he was sliding out of her ability to help. But – now more than ever – she trusted that Ruiz was succumbing to the inevitable.  
  
"I need some help in here!" she shouted. "Now!"  
  
She grabbed the edge of the white cotton blanket and yanked it away from the man's unmoving chest. Tearing open his gown, she placed her hands on his body. She felt the heat, and she trusted that the fever was wrecking havoc with his immune system.  
  
After all, there was no way the human body could fight this infection.  
  
"I SAID I NEED SOME HELP IN HERE!"  
  
Immediately, she placed her forefinger at the base of the man's sternum, visually measured up to the spot where her medical training assured her his heart was, and, ignoring her best medical instincts, she said a silent prayer. Then, clasping her hands together, she stuck the base of her palm to that spot and began pumping downward – one deliberate thrust after another after another – alternating her view between the monitor and Ruiz's still face.  
  
Behind her, she heard the rustling of the plastic sheeting. "I'm here!" A medical technician immediately took a position at the head of the bed. From a cart, the technician retrieved an artificial breather. She placed it over the patient's mouth and asked, "Time?"  
  
Stopping with her efforts, Nina ordered, "Go."  
  
Nodding, the technician squeezed the bladder twice. Together, they watched Ruiz's chest rise only very slightly. Then, the assistant studied the doctor's expression. Once more, Nina began calculated thumping on Ruiz's chest, desperately trying to convince his heart to beat again. She didn't want to lose him – she never wanted to lose any victim – but she knew that the voice in the back of her mind wouldn't be silenced.  
  
'You can't do a thing,' it told her.  
  
'Yes, I can,' she told it, but it kept taunting and teasing and threatening her repeatedly.  
  
'You can't do a thing,' it said. 'He's dying, and there isn't a thing you or any person of the face of this awful, God-forsaken planet can do about it.'  
  
'I'm still going to try,' she thought.  
  
'You're wasting your time.'  
  
'Saving a life is never a waste of time.'  
  
'You can't save him. He's dead already.'  
  
It wouldn't go away, but, between the counts of her applying pressure and the technician's administering Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation, she managed to soften the voice's influence on her.  
  
"What's happening?"  
  
Glancing over her shoulder, Nina saw Dr. Olga Vukavitch step into the containment area.  
  
"Agent Ruiz is trying to take an early check-out."  
  
"Oh, no," Olga muttered.  
  
Nina shook her head, continuing to press down, down, down on the man's chest. She ignored the fact that Dr. Vukavitch didn't offer to help in any way, and she asked, "What about the vaccine ... or is that still considered a possession too prized for the common folk, doctor?"  
  
Grimacing, Olga stood next to the physician. "It hasn't been tested."  
  
"Do we really have a choice?"  
  
"Dr. Welles," Olga tried, adopting her best diplomatic voice, "I understand completely what you're thinking, but this drug has not been authorized for use on Agent Ruiz by the NSA."  
  
"Dr. Vukavitch," Nina tried, controlling her desire to lash out at her present counterpart, "I will ask you again: does it really matter?"  
  
As the two continued to work on Ruiz, Olga stepped easily around to the monitor and switched off the alarm.  
  
"The vaccine hasn't arrived yet from Washington," she explained.  
  
"Washington?" Nina couldn't believe what she was hearing. People were dying in the field – at least, this man was – and the top brass were sitting on the only tool that might be able to prove otherwise, to defy the odds, to stop time and heal the sick ... but, instead, the drug was collecting dust on some colonel's desk. "What the hell is it doing in Washington?"  
  
"The NSA has released Chronoticin in a very limited supply, Dr. Welles," Olga answered. "You know – as well as I know – that the NSA is very particular over authorizing its use for what the Committee deems 'non- essential personnel.'"  
  
"Dr. Vukavitch, one of our own is dying, and you're telling me there's absolutely nothing that the NSA will do to save him?"  
  
Olga lowered her head. "There is a shipment en route to us, doctor," she finally said. "But ... I do not believe that it will reach us in time to help Agent Ruiz." Quietly, her voice trembling, she added, "I'm sorry," and she left through the heavy curtain.  
  
Nina ignored the impulse to chase after the woman. After all, the NSA didn't answer to Olga Vukavitch, and Nina had no doubt that Olga was just as concerned about the lack of available serum in Never Never Land.  
  
... but damn the protocol!  
  
'There's nothing you can do,' the voice told her.  
  
"Keep trying," she told the technician, who squeezed off several more breaths into Ruiz's dormant body.  
  
'There's nothing you can do,' the voice told her.  
  
She increased the pressure she was applying to the man's ribs. After all, it the truest clinical sense of the word, Alberto Ruiz was dead. There was nothing that she could do that could make matters any worse at this point. With all her might, she arched her shoulders and pressed down, down, down into his chest.  
  
'There's nothing you can do,' the voice dropped to a whisper. 'There's nothing you can ever do.'  
  
End of Chapter 28 


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29  
  
Six Days, Seven Hours, Nine Minutes  
  
"You see, Frank," Talmadge maintained, "throughout history of the latter half of the twentieth century, it had long been speculated – mostly by thinkers within the UFO community and some noted conspiracy theorists – that the United States' ongoing flirtation with nuclear power was the single most important event in capturing the attention of an advanced alien civilization. Despite what any of us may think of the Atomic Age, the dropping of the hydrogen bomb on, first, Hiroshima and, later, Nagasaki signified a scientific and cultural renaissance within the galactic community. The detonation of nuclear weapons signified that the human race had reached a new plateau in the field of science. Little did we know, others were watching from across the stars. They weren't necessarily waiting for us to make the technological leap, but they were still watching. Once we did, they came here in their ships ... first, to observe ... second, to establish contact."  
  
"Establish contact?"  
  
The director smiled. "Precisely." Suddenly, he held up his hands. "Oh, don't get me wrong. History in our timeline quite possibly unfolded like it did in yours. The events in Roswell took place. The technology from that downed spacecraft was used in the construction of the Sphere. However, little did we know that representatives from the stars had met – in privacy – with a delegation speaking on behalf of all mankind."  
  
"For what purpose?"  
  
"Principally," Mentnor took over the tale, "it was an agreement of terms."  
  
"Terms?" Parker asked. "What kind of terms? Make sure to keep your nukes in your backyard?"  
  
"Nothing quite so radical," he quipped. "No, the aliens wanted to continue their study of our various societies."  
  
"Why would they want to study us?" It wasn't making much sense to Parker, and he desperately wanted to understand. "It sounds like we were still using Beta machines while they were burning CDs by just thinking about them, so what did Space MENSA want from the Neanderthals?"  
  
"These travelers belonged to an incredibly sophisticated race," Mentnor explained. "They had, quite literally, made extraordinary leaps and bounds – socially, psychologically, and technologically. In fact, they had evolved so quickly – they had advanced their civilization so dramatically in such a compressed period of time – that, somehow, they lost touch with how they came to be the race of people they were." Parker thought he saw the glimmer of wisdom in the scientist's eye. Was it envy, or was it compassion for a people who had lost their identity in favor of science? He didn't know. "These aliens hoped that studying us – a far more primitive species – they could perhaps unlock a clearer understanding of themselves ... who they were, where they had come from, and how they evolved." The older man shrugged. "Strictly from an anthropological point of view, I suppose it made perfect sense – against the backdrop of cosmic existence. Sometimes the hardest answers to find can only be answered by the simplest of people. I don't know if I ever believed them, but I understood why they were looking to Earth for the answers to their questions."  
  
"So," Parker mused aloud, "in your timeline, everyone was aware of an alien presence?"  
  
"Not everyone," Talmadge corrected. "As I said, this was a select group of individuals. As they've come down through the ages, we've called them the Illuminati."  
  
"I've heard of them," the chrononaut said. "They exist in my timeline, only they're a rumor mostly. But – you're telling me that in your timeline, in your reality – they're a known group?"  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"Geesh," he retorted. "I hope they don't have their own lobbyists for Congress."  
  
The director smiled. "Once Frank Parker crashed the Sphere with the airliner en route to destroy the first of the Twin Towers, he caused an explosion of such magnitude that Earth once again caught the attention of these aliens. As they were once drawn to us for study in the mid 1940's, they now returned in full force. Frank Parker had convinced them that mankind had crossed another barrier, stepping beyond the Atomic Age into an Age of Chronology." Talmadge shook his head, finding the tale almost too hard to believe. "By their definition, Frank Parker – a human – had mastered the science of Time Travel – an ability they knew they had accidentally given us access to some sixty odd years earlier with the events of Roswell – and that brought their leaders to a second meeting with the Illuminati ... only, this time, the heads of various world organizations and governments were also contacted. So, yes, in our reality, society is very aware that a higher intelligence has made contact. They aren't aware of the extent of the dialogue that, even today, continues between our two very different races, but citizens of Earth know that we are definitely far from alone in the universe."  
  
Slowly, Parker pieced together what such a series of events might mean for history. "These aliens ... they aided in the manufacture of another Sphere?" He took a few steps around the glass wall as he thought aloud. "Your Frank Parker showed them that mankind had crossed a line – had achieved a higher plane of existence – so they shared their technology openly?" Stopping in his tracks, he shook his head. "This is too weird!"  
  
Talmadge laughed. "That's right, Frank."  
  
"Our worlds are not so very different, Frank," Mentnor underscored. "Again, there are events that link these two timelines together. That's not to say that all events with have parallels."  
  
"But alien contact?" Parker reasoned. "That's just ... I can't even begin to imagine!"  
  
"It certainly set global defenses on high alert for some months to come," Talmadge agreed. "As the days wore on and the various countries of the world realized that the aliens – as best as could be determined – posed absolutely no threat to any man, woman, or child, people returned to their lives. Things went back to normal. After all, the government was meeting with the aliens on a regular basis. Yes, the aliens provided a gift to the United States by supplying us with another Sphere – think of it as a temporal Statue of Liberty – and Project BackStep was allowed to continue ... with certain restrictions."  
  
Parker raised an eyebrow. "What kind of restrictions?"  
  
"An alien delegate – Larnord – sits on the NSA Advisory Committee that oversees and approves all BackStep operations," Talmadge clarified. "Now, with the blessing of the NSA and the aliens, we're allowed to engage in BackSteps that are reviewed and endorsed by a civilization with a very efficient grasp of time travel. This ensures us that we're not radically altering our timeline so much to the point that we cause any type of rupture in the space/time continuum."  
  
Planting on hand on the glass, Parker stood completely still. "This is incredible," he finally said. "I can't believe ... you're telling me an alien works at the NSA?"  
  
"There are certain elements of our ongoing communication with their species that aren't exactly public knowledge, Frank," Talmadge added. "The Presidential Advisory Committee felt that too much disclosure would force the American people – in particular – to rethink what influence it would accept from these space visitors."  
  
"And all this was caused by the explosion of the first Sphere?"  
  
"All that and more," Mentnor explained. "Frank, what you did ... well, what our Frank Parker did ... he opened a portal that didn't close for several months."  
  
Confused, Parker turned to the scientist. "What do you mean, Isaac?"  
  
"That single event – the rupture of a craft designed for temporal operations – did cause a rip in the fabric of time," he went on. "You have to understand that time is a very, very delicate weave, and what we know now ... well, we were only making the best educated guesses. Now, we have facts upon which to base whether or not a BackStep would only serve the domino effect for far more devastating events. Somehow, what our Frank Parker did caught the attention of chrononauts from other realities – it seems that many, many timelines share some form of recovered technology from the Roswell crash, and it seems that many, many societies put the surviving technology to similar use."  
  
"What Isaac is putting politely, Frank," Talmadge took over, "is that, suddenly, our world was flooded by visits from chrononauts from other timelines." He sighed heavily. "By crashing the Sphere into the airliner, Frank Parker saved the world months of unimaginable pain ... but he accidentally weakened the barriers that separated our reality from others ... and he accidentally caused events we could never have anticipated."  
  
"What?" Parker asked. "What did he do?"  
  
"It brings us to the reason of your containment, Frank," Mentnor assured the man. "You see, time travel within your own continuum is, on the cellular level, limited in terms of the dangers. Of course, I would imagine that you've experienced some physical trauma as a result of BackStepping. Pain. Minor impairment of motor skills for a short period of time immediately following your trip back in time. Bleeding from the eyes ... sometimes, the ears ... or other orifices of your body." The older man glanced away for several seconds before continuing. "As it would turn out, these time travelers from other realities ... when they made contact with people of our reality, the results have almost always been fatal."  
  
Parker shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Isaac, are you saying ... are you saying that I'm some sort of walking lethal infection?"  
  
"That's a polite way of putting it, Frank," Talmadge answered. "You've given us the courtesy of listening while we filled you in on the differences between your world and ours, so I'm going to repay that courtesy by being perfectly blunt." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he faced the man – separately only by the dense pane of protective glass. "Think of yourself as an Angel of Death. Anyone you come into to contact with suffers accelerated physiological trauma. The effects are often immediate: high fever, nausea, an inability to focus. Over the next several hours to the next few days depending upon the person's metabolism, the cells of their tissue begin to break down in ways we've not been able to effectively treat." The man grimly shook his head. "In all of our recorded encounters with chrononauts – Frank Parker or otherwise – the longest victim has lasted was three days ... and, let me assure you, those were three very painful days before the woman's inevitable death."  
  
"As a consequence," Mentnor added, "we established these containment procedures. Everything you've experienced since you arrived in our reality – the isolation – is completely necessary to ensure the survival of every living person on this planet."  
  
Parker placed a hand on his chest. "You mean ... I infect them with death?"  
  
"Only those you make contact with," Talmadge assured him. "It isn't anything contagious other between you and those you come into close proximity with. We've taken precautions, regardless, in our efforts to further understand the effects of such an encounter – that's why you might recall several of the field operatives wearing CDC-issued protective gear before you were placed in the isolation chamber."  
  
"But ... Bradley, I have met people," Parker suddenly recalled aloud. "There was this old man who ran a restaurant after I arrived." He struggled with the memories of the last several hours. "Ebdon! Ebdon Finkle! And those NSA field agents who picked me up! I've exposed them, Bradley! They were there not long after I arrived!"  
  
The director held up his hands. "And all of them are currently under observation."  
  
"Under observation where?"  
  
"Here," Talmadge assured him. "They've been brought to Never Never Land. Olga and her team are attending to them as we speak."  
  
"Olga?"  
  
Parker couldn't remember whether or not he had heard her name before, but, in an instant, his heart pounded. She was here. In this other timeline – in this other reality – Olga Vukavitch was real. She was out there – somewhere – doing her job, like she always did, trying to save lives.  
  
"She's here, Frank," Talmadge said. "Those people couldn't be in better hands."  
  
Deliberately, the chrononaut nodded.  
  
"That's why we've contained you, Frank," the man continued, "and why we've stopped you from completing your mission." He pulled out his hands and held them out in a gesture of surrender. "If we were to let you out – if we were to cooperate with you and send you out into the field to accomplish whatever it is you were sent here to do – every single person you can into contact with ... they'd quite possibly be dead within a matter of hours. As I've no doubt you understand, that's a risk the NSA cannot and will not allow."  
  
The three of them stood silent for several long moments.  
  
"Except," Parker finally said.  
  
"Except?"  
  
"Except this time," he explained, "you may not have that choice, Bradley."  
  
The director cocked his head. "What do you mean?"  
  
"The parallelogram," Parker reminded him.  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"The parallelogram!" he practically shouted. "A parallelogram. It was four points, two at each end. Now, in Isaac's terms, those ends represent events that tie the timelines together."  
  
"Yes, that's right."  
  
"Think about it, Bradley," the young man challenged. "Isaac said that your world and my world run parallel. That much we know. We dress alike. We share the same doctors, dentists, tailors. Hell, we probably all wear boxers instead of briefs. That sort of little stuff." He held up his hands into a shape similar to the one Mentnor had made not long ago. He showed the rectangle to the two men on the other side of the glass. "But, in the bigger sense, we're linked by events of ... what did you say ... events of temporal significance?"  
  
The older man sat silently, studying Parker's face.  
  
"If that's true," the chrononaut pressed, "then isn't it possible that the reason I've been sent back in time is directly linked to preserving not only one but also the existence, the distinctiveness, the solidarity of both timelines?" Quickly, Parker nodded at the scientist. "Now, like I said when all of us started talking, I'm no Brainiac, but this parallel convergence thing? That doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun, if you catch my meaning. I don't know about you, but I, for one, wouldn't be looking forward to having my world collide chronologically with another one and face extinction, if that's what time has in store for me." He took a moment to compose his thoughts before explaining, "This event that would cause not only my world but yours to converge, wipe the slate clean, and leave one left standing in the center ring ... isn't it possible that the event I'm here to stop is the other end of the parallelogram? Isn't it possible that it's the only thing keeping our timelines separate?"  
  
"I'm not following you, Talmadge replied.  
  
Mentnor sat upright in his chair.  
  
"I think I understand," he interrupted. "Bradley, listen to what Frank's saying." Again, he held up his hands, forming a rectangle with his fingers. "It's quite possible that this Frank Parker is here to accomplish a mission that our Frank Parker, may he rest in peace, will no longer have the chance to complete. So, it stands to reason that if Frank isn't allowed to complete his task – if we contain him here, if we keep him from averting whatever disaster he's been sent to correct – then the result could be the convergence of our two timelines ... into one."  
  
Suddenly, the scientist glanced up at his former boss.  
  
"Bradley, if we allowed that to happen, then we would be responsible for the end of life as we know it."  
  
End of Chapter 29 


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30  
  
Six Days, Six Hours, Forty-Six Minutes  
  
"Lose the attitude, Ulrika, or you're not going to get the photo shoot."  
  
Indiri Farris quickened her pace across the agency floor. Around her, the business was abuzz with activity – file clerks rushed to and fro with stacks and stacks of portfolios, photographers toyed with their cameras to make certain everything was in order for the next assignment, beauty queens strutting their stuff from desk to desk in heated conversation with other agents. The industry was changing – what with the state of terrorism in around the world today – and Indiri was pleased to know that she changed with it. Despite some critical setbacks on photo sessions cancelled from taking place in some of the most beautiful yet dangerous locations on the planet, Indiri kept her models at work, busily working at altering contract locations and suggesting alternative locales. In most cases, the adjustments were warmly appreciated. In some cases, Indiri threw in the white towel and pulled the plug on the deal. She wasn't about to risk her talent – or their good looks – by sending them to a Homeland Security flagged 'hot spot' ... not even in Victoria's Secret demanded it. As far as Indiri was concerned, danger was off the table, and all of her clients – whether they agreed or not – respected her for such tenacity.  
  
"Milagro is such a poop," Ulrika pouted, racing to keep up with her agent.  
  
'Milagro?' Indiri wondered. 'What kind of a name was Milagro for a photographer? Milagro? Wasn't that a coffee bean or something? Didn't Robert Redford make a film with the word Milagro in the title?'  
  
"Milagro is doing his job," Indiri insisted. "He happens to be very good at it. His parents were both photographers, and they passed their gift along to him. Unfortunately, they didn't have as much sense when it came to picking out baby names."  
  
"But he gives me the creeps!"  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"He is always staring at me!"  
  
"He is a photographer," she argued. "That's what he does."  
  
"Must you always take his side?"  
  
"He's a professional," she countered. "Quite frankly, he's the best right now, at the top of his game, and you should be personally flattered that he wants to spend his time photographing you."  
  
"If you say so."  
  
"He also guarantees you a magazine cover shot, Ulrika, and neither of us can afford to be so particular as to pass up some a great possibility," she explained, rushing past her secretary – the woman held up several pink- colored telephone message slips like they were hundred dollar bills – and taking a seat behind her desk. "You don't understand what this could mean for you down the road in your career, and I think that's something I need to tell you ... as your agent." She fixed a stare at the woman, softening her tone but intensifying her eyes. "Milagro, for the record, is currently at the top of his game right now. He's the most sought after cameraman out there. He's the fashion jock. He's our industry's hot ticket. His work is largely considered art, not filler. I'm not talking about glamour shots or bargain sales advertising. I'm talking about the fact that his photographs are hanging on the walls of some of the most creative geniuses of our time, Ulrika." She decided to play the career coach and said, "He's caught Hollywood's eye. That means a great deal for any model – male or female – whom he chooses to photograph. This kind of exposure can open the doors that we've talked about, young lady. You might be looking at an entire photo spread and interview for Maxim Magazine. Or – what's that new one? FHM? There's also Razor to think about. Razor is getting tremendous word of mouth right now."  
  
"I don't like Razor," Ulrika spat.  
  
"What's wrong with Razor?"  
  
"I think the magazine's name promotes violence."  
  
Indiri frowned. "I think the name promotes personal hygiene."  
  
"It is an ugly word."  
  
"Unemployment is an ugly word."  
  
"But it is my career we're talking about," the model bantered moodily from the stuffed chair. "I'm not interested in working with the best. I'd like to experiment, you know? I'd like to get out there and really find out who I am ... visually."  
  
"If you want work," Indiri cautioned, "then talk to me. If you want to find yourself, then get yourself a therapist."  
  
"I would hope my opinion counts for something."  
  
"When you're in my office, sweetheart, it counts when I say it counts."  
  
The secretary appeared in the doorway, still clasping the telephone message, and Indiri replied, "Not now, Iceland."  
  
'Iceland?' she thought. 'There's another absurd name! What's wrong with this world today? Why don't parents just name their little showgirl Barbie any more and get the therapy started?'  
  
Quickly, Iceland disappeared.  
  
"So ... you're saying that I have to go with Milagro?"  
  
"Yes, you have to go with Milagro."  
  
"There is no discussion."  
  
"Not as far as I'm concerned."  
  
The beauty queen huffed, crossing her arms in a contained tantrum. "Tell me why again?"  
  
"I've told you why plenty of times already, Ulrika," Indiri denied her the courtesy. "But I will add one more salient point: his last three models landed their first acting jobs in their career. Now, those three ladies are looking at serious crossover potential onto the silver screen. If they do well – if they play their part and do as their managers, their directors, and their agents tell them – then there might even be a brighter future for them as bona fide actresses." Dismissively, she began shuffling several files on her desk. "So, yes, you will go with Milagro to Cabo, and you will have your several hundred pictures taken, and he will sort through them for the absolute best with the editors of Splash Magazine. Count your blessings, young lady, and stop counting your complaints."  
  
"Yes, mother."  
  
"I am not old enough to be your mother. You, on the other hard, are old enough to be fired."  
  
"Whatever you say ... mother."  
  
Indiri passionately loathed being mistreated by the fashionably- inclined. All of her hard work gave these ungrateful 'children' the opportunities of a lifetime, and all they could offer up in return was cynicism. "Ulrika, for the last time, I am not your mother."  
  
"Yes, father," the model cooed.  
  
"I am not your father, either."  
  
"Then what am I supposed to call you when I'm being sarcastic?"  
  
Indiri sighed. "When you're being sarcastic, you can speak with Iceland." Curtly, she waved toward the door. "Now, out. Mommy and daddy have work to do."  
  
Giggling, Ulrika rose and swaggered out into the busy agency.  
  
"Oy," the agent muttered.  
  
Suddenly, she felt the vibration of her cell phone ringing at her hip. She reached down, still fumbling with the file folders, and flipped the device open. "Indiri Farris," she said.  
  
"You have such a beautiful voice," came the reply – obviously, a man's voice – on the other end of the line.  
  
She stopped. How did this industry pig get her cell phone number? Regardless of who he was, she wouldn't tolerate it. Today, she wasn't in the mood. "This beautiful voice presently earns about $300 dollars an hour on a good day. Today, it's a good day. So, if you have no better opening line than that, I'm not sure you can afford this beautiful voice today."  
  
"Tsk, tsk," he scolded her. "Is that any way to treat a stranger in your very strange land?"  
  
Something about the tone of his voice seemed familiar. Coyly, she relaxed in her leather chair, smiling, and brought a finger to her red lips. "All right. You have sixty seconds."  
  
"Would you like to hear all of the things – each and every one of them more memorable than the last – that I can do in sixty seconds?"  
  
Whoever he was, she decided he was smooth.  
  
"Who is this?" she asked.  
  
"I will give ten seconds to guess, madame."  
  
"Is this ...?"  
  
She couldn't believe it. She guessed that Richard DeMarco was half her age as she studied the smooth lines of his face on the airplane last night. She assumed that he flirted with her only in the interest of passing time. Still, she offered him her business card, and he said he'd call ... but Indiri Farris was hardly used to miracles happening so readily in her life.  
  
"Richard DeMarco?" she asked.  
  
"Very good!" he replied, laughing. "And you guessed correct on the first try! You American women amaze me! You are so much smarter than I ever possibly imagined."  
  
"Our wisdom is our greatest strength."  
  
"If you would not find this too presumptuous, might I add that I have always personally found intelligence in a woman very, very sexy, Miss Farris."  
  
She smiled. "It is such a pleasure to hear that from a man world- traveled."  
  
"I am only thinking of local travel today, Miss Farris."  
  
"Please," she interrupted, her voice sultry. "Call me Indiri."  
  
"Very well."  
  
"What kind of local travel were you considering?"  
  
"Someplace very local," he continued.  
  
"What for?"  
  
"I am hungry."  
  
"And again it begs the question: what for?"  
  
"I would like for the two of us – you and I – to visit someplace where two people – both consenting adults – might enjoy a wonderful evening meal. The meal must be exquisite, and the atmosphere must be perfect. Afterwards, I would very much like for the two of us to perhaps share a peaceful walk under your bright American moonlight."  
  
She laughed. "You are very smooth, Richard."  
  
"You are too kind."  
  
Biting her lower lip, she said, "If that's what serves as an invitation to dinner, then I accept."  
  
"I would very much like to have dinner with you, Indiri."  
  
"Somehow, I was hoping that you'd call."  
  
"Your prayers have been answered, my lady," he told her. "As I am new in your country, however, I do not know of any appropriate restaurant that might lend itself to – shall we say – the proper atmosphere? I was hoping you could make a suggestion."  
  
"Where are you staying?"  
  
"Heston Tower," he replied.  
  
"Really?" she said. "Heston Tower has a lovely restaurant off their lobby."  
  
"I did notice a name on the marquee."  
  
"Yes," she agreed. "It's Abendessen. If I know my German, I believe it means 'supper.'"  
  
"So simple?"  
  
"Yes, it is."  
  
"Then I would like to join you for dinner."  
  
"That would be nice."  
  
"Need I arrange for a car to pick you up?"  
  
He was such a gentleman. And, as he was staying at the Heston, she knew her original instincts on the plane last night were correct: not only was he handsome, but he was wealthy also. Farris knew that she would be working for a few more hours, but an early dinner sounded wonderful.  
  
"Why don't I meet you there?" she offered.  
  
"Are you sure? I don't want this to be any bother."  
  
"I have a few afternoon appointments," she explained, glancing at her day planner. She would have Iceland cancel one or two of the latest meetings so that she would have plenty of time to prepare. "I'll shuffle a few things around in my schedule, and I'll meet you in the lobby. How does seven o'clock sound?"  
  
"Indiri," he crooned, "any time of day coming from you sounds absolutely delightful."  
  
Again, she grinned. She couldn't suppress feeling like a love- stricken school girl, but, were she lucky, she would feel more like a woman tonight.  
  
"Then, it's a date."  
  
"Oh, let's not call it a date," DeMarco replied. "I hate the word. It sounds ... it sounds so provincial. Let's agree that you and I have unfinished business to attend to. That sounds far more adult. Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
End of Chapter 30 


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31  
  
Six Days, Six Hours, Twenty-Nine Minutes  
  
"I can't feel my toes," Ebdon Finkle said.  
  
Reaching down, Olga squeezed the man's exposed right foot under her gloved hand. Trapped with her suit, she couldn't tell whether his skin was burning hot or icy cold. Slowly, she released and twitched her fingers together once more, pinching the man's flesh.  
  
"Did you feel that?"  
  
"I don't know," he answered. "Did you touch my feet?"  
  
She stood upright, staring down at the old man. She studied his expression. Through her protective faceplate, she saw the lines of fear etched cleanly into his forehead. His eyes red, the man sweated beads of water from every pore on his face. She thought long about what she should say, what counsel she could offer a man who knew he was dying from something she didn't have the ability to stop, and she shook her head.  
  
"I squeezed your toes," she finally confessed.  
  
"Then I guess I didn't feel it."  
  
"Are you telling me that you didn't feel anything, Mr. Finkle? No sensation whatsoever?"  
  
"Is that normal?"  
  
She considered the question. "Mr. Finkle ... I think you would agree that these circumstances don't approach any possible definition of the word 'normal.'"  
  
Something about the way she said it made him smile. Lying flat on his back, he shrugged as best he could. "Maybe I felt something."  
  
She smiled back. He was being a good patient. "That's good to hear."  
  
Ebdon breathed deeply, all the while his gasps growing deeper. She guessed that he intentionally controlled his breaths in order to maintain his composure or a measure of relaxation. People suffering from panic attacks often did the same. It was called 'distraction therapy,' and, to her surprise, it appeared to be working. Despite the rapid progress of infection in others who undergone exposure minutes later than the black man, Olga thought his condition was remarkably stable. Was it his practiced breathing, or was it the wisdom that came with age? Whatever it was, it helped, but she suspected it wouldn't delay his eventual submission. Still, Ebdon Finkle was a proud man – a man who built himself up as Deep South restaurateur while raised in a three-bedroom home along with his thirteen brothers and sisters. She admired him, admired his strength and his courage in this dark hour. With each passing bit of conversation, she found herself liking the man more and more ... and that affection only certified the rising dread in her heart.  
  
Looking away, she glanced around the facility. Through the murky plastic sheeting, she could barely see the other medical technicians tended to the others – the NSA's Temporal Response Team – all of them suffering the effects of temporal infection. There, not very far away, she made out the familiar shape of Channing Michelson. He was tall – much taller than any of the med techs – and she recognized his form leaning over one of the NSA field agents. She wondered if he knew the man ... or was he merely studying what everyone associated to BackStep had grown to fear most.  
  
"Olga?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Finkle?"  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment. She watched as his eyelids rippled from the effect of his eyeballs moving back and forth under the tissue. "I think ... I think that there's definitely some feeling in my toes again."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am. I sense a chill."  
  
Given the likelihood of the illness wracking his body, she didn't know whether this was a good sign or not. Stepping toward the foot of the bed, she reached out and grabbed one of his toes. Wiggling it, she tried, "This little piggy went to the marketplace."  
  
"That's 'market,'" he corrected.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"That nursery song," he explained, opening his eyes. "You're getting it all wrong, and nothing annoys me more than people who can't get the words to a song right." He sighed tiredly. "You're supposed to sing, 'this little piggy went to the market.' Not marketplace. It's market."  
  
Grimacing, she moaned. "Mr. Finkle, can I make a confession?"  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"I've never been very good with your American colloquialisms."  
  
"Our what?"  
  
She shook her head. "Never mind." Again, she pinched his smallest toe. "Can you feel that?"  
  
His expression blanked. Then, a broad smile lit up half his face. "Yes, I did, Dr. Vukavitch."  
  
"That's good news," she reported excitedly. "It would seem that – despite your fever – you are remaining stable."  
  
"You say that like it's a bad thing."  
  
"I say it only because it is unexpected ... but it is still welcome."  
  
"What about the others?"  
  
"The others?"  
  
"Yes," he said. Feeling stronger from her reaction, he lifted his head and glanced toward the nearest wall of protective sheeting. "Those men and women who came for Frank. How are they doing?"  
  
Olga knew it was best to keep the truth from the man. She refused to dampen his spirits now that he was feeling good.  
  
"They're ... doing the best they can, Mr. Finkle."  
  
He looked up at her. "That didn't sound like they were doing fine."  
  
She swallowed, realizing she never was any good at disguising her feelings. Allowing herself the reflection, she understood that that single trait was what made her so obviously attracted to Channing ... and, before him, to Frank.  
  
Maybe love was best shared with those who were truly loved.  
  
"Mr. Finkle," she began, placing a hand on his chest, "I really shouldn't discuss the condition of the other patients. I think you know that all of them are suffering from the same exposure that your body is currently experiencing."  
  
"It's gonna kill me, isn't it, doctor?"  
  
The bulk of her expression hidden under the CDC protective suit, Olga knew that her fears were still utterly transparent.  
  
"Let's not talk about death, Mr. Finkle."  
  
"Why not?" he asked. "I'm not afraid. I reached a point a few years ago where I realized that it was bound to happen, whether I smoked one too many pipes of tobacco or if I just sat there waiting for a meteor to come crashing out of the sky and take me out in a blaze of glory." He frowned. "It's just that ... I'd hate to see this destroy so many others."  
  
Fighting back the tears, Olga brought her hand from his chest to his chin. "Then let us agree – you and I – that we will not talk about death unless it becomes absolutely necessary." Composing herself, she locked her eyes with his. "This will be good for both of us. Agreed?"  
  
Resting his head back onto his pillow, the old man nodded.  
  
"I guess that the doctor knows best," he teased.  
  
End of Chapter 31 


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32  
  
Six Days, Six Hours, Ten Minutes  
  
"Dammit, Donovan!" Ramsey screamed from the video monitor, a vein clearly enlarged in his forehead. "Would you like to start this telephone call with an explanation of just where the hell you've been?"  
  
Reclining in his chair, his hands resting easily on his desk, Craig Donovan rolled his eyes at the screen. Same old Ramsey. Same old charm. Two years had passed, but, in Ramseyan terms, nothing ever changed ... not even as the result of a BackStep.  
  
"It's good to see you, too, Ramsey."  
  
"I left a message for you over an hour ago!"  
  
"I got your message."  
  
"Well, if I had known that you were going to take your own sweet time calling me back, then I would have called in a few favors owed to me by some detectives I know with the Washington D.C. police. I would've had them find your sorry ass, pull it out of that fancy sports car you race down the freeway in, and haul you into the nearest NSA-secure video link!"  
  
Nodding indifferently, the man muttered, "It just so happens that I was with the Washington D.C. police, Ramsey."  
  
"Save the attitude for the reunion, Craig," he replied. "Right now, I'm up to my elbows in NeverNever Land crapola! The last thing I need added to my personal pile is some snot-nosed NSA superstar who's gone 'orphan' failing to toe the company line any more! The next time I give you an order to call me, I expect you to drop everything and get yourself to the nearest land line! Am I making myself clear?"  
  
"Look," Donovan tried, waving a hand at the camera lens, "I don't report to you any longer, Ramsey. I signed off BackStep after ... well, I did that long enough ago to know that it's nothing more old history. It isn't worth reliving. Who do you think you are? Where do you get off calling my supervisor, issuing me NSA directives? I don't answer to you. I don't answer to Bradley. As long as we're being perfectly candid with one another, I don't report to anyone associated with the Project BackStep!"  
  
Smiling, Ramsey retorted, "The winds of change are blowing, my friend, and you're about to be blown over." On his end of the video transmission, the Director of Security held up a piece of paper – Donovan couldn't make out any of the typed message – bearing the official NSA letterhead and logo. "As of ten minutes ago, you were re-assigned to Project BackStep at the expressed direction of the President of the United States."  
  
"The President?"  
  
"Oh, that's right," the man smirked. "The President of the God- blessed United States of America!" Ramsey cocked his head on the screen. "You're heard of him, haven't you?"  
  
Curious, Donovan asked, "Ramsey, why don't we start this whole conversation from the top with you telling me what the President has to do with all of this?"  
  
"Oh, so now I have your undivided attention, do I?"  
  
"RAMSEY!"  
  
The man stopped long enough to brush frail strands of hair back across the top of his head. "All right," he consented, "I'm going to give you what I know, but I have to inform you that this is above top secret, Donovan. We're talking top drawer stuff here, and that means you're not at liberty to discuss any of what I'm about to tell you – not that you'll believe it until you see it – with anyone ... and that includes that no-good D.C. pencil-neck, Terry Simon. I never much cared that that brown-nosing pinhead. You can tell him I said so if you're so inclined."  
  
"Understood," Donovan sighed.  
  
Ramsey nodded. "We've got ourselves a Conundrum like never anticipated."  
  
"That's what I heard," the man replied. "But ... how is that possible?"  
  
"It beats the hell out of me at this point," Ramsey confessed. "All hell broke loose about fifteen hours ago when the Sphere dropped down into some virtual swampland in nowhere Mississippi. Since then, the President has been on high alert. Bradley and Isaac have spent the last two hours conducting a debriefing ..."  
  
"Isaac?" Donovan interrupted. "You've got to be kidding me? Isaac ... he's come back? When he resigned, he swore he'd never be back. How did Bradley get him to change his mind?"  
  
Again, the Director of Security flashed the NSA letterhead. "You know how the wheel gets greased. The NSA is full of reserve activation clauses – they're all hidden in the fine print – for whatever purpose the big dogs serve." He paused, setting the paper back down on his desk. "Look, Donovan, I'll keep this short and sweet because – like you – I have other, more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. The straight skinney is that Bradley does not – I repeat – does not want you on a plane back here until we know what the hell Parker's doing in this timeline."  
  
"So Frank is here?"  
  
"That's affirmative," Ramsey said. Suddenly, his face flushed red with anger, and his eyes drooped with disappointment. "It isn't our Frank Parker, as you well know, but it is Parker, nonetheless. Not only is he here, but also he infected the entire Primary Temporal Response Team."  
  
Donovan felt a chill wash over him where he sat. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, offering a personal moment of silence before asking, "How many are dead?"  
  
"Three," the man confirmed.  
  
"Damn."  
  
"We have a few others who are hanging by a thread."  
  
Disheartened, Donovan gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw trembling.  
  
"And there's one civilian."  
  
"Civilian?" he tried. "How was that allowed to happen?"  
  
"You know Parker. He'll shake hands with any ole stranger he sees walking down the streets."  
  
Ramsey was right: Craig Donovan knew Frank Parker. Without question, he knew him better than anyone else involved with BackStep. Consequently, he knew him well enough to know that Chrononaut Frank Parker – former Navy SEAL and fellow human being – would risk his own life before placing a single innocent civilian in jeopardy. Clearly, Donovan realized, Frank didn't know about temporal contamination, which meant that the infections possibly didn't exist in other timelines or other realities. That simple fact gave him hope that the BackStep Program – despite arguments from its principal political critics – would continue to serve mankind's best interest as it had over the years.  
  
"Anyway," Ramsey mumbled, "he's here. Until we know what his mission is, that's all I can say. Once we're in the know, then circumstances may change, and Bradley may order you back here. He wanted to let you know that's an alternative he's keeping on the table. As it stands now, you're to keep yourself available ... and that doesn't allow for one hour gaps between my telephone calls and your answer, is that understood?"  
  
"Understood," Donovan flatly chirped.  
  
"Stay near this phone," Ramsey ordered. "We're tentatively scheduling a conference with Frank for about four p.m. your time."  
  
"That's not that far off."  
  
"Then, as I ordered, you shouldn't wander. And don't dawdle next time."  
  
"But you've no idea what Frank's doing here?"  
  
"Not a clue."  
  
Donovan shook his head. "All right," he agreed. "I'll sit tight."  
  
Ramsey nodded back at the man. "Then we'll talk again."  
  
The videolink went dead, the screen blacking out, and Donovan turned toward the shafts of sunlight streaming through the blinds covering his office's window.  
  
Frank Parker.  
  
Here.  
  
Now.  
  
After all of these years?  
  
"This can't be good," he muttered to himself.  
  
End of Chapter 32 


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33  
  
Six Days, Five Hours, Forty Minutes  
  
Despite all of her best efforts, Olga stood watching Ebdon Finkle as he started to surrender his fragile hold on life. The old man still controlled his breathing – one calculated breath after another – but, over the last thirty minutes, she saw him grow visibly weaker. Where he once seemed awake and alert, now he only kept his eyes half open. Where he once appeared composed, now his bottom lip twitched, signaling the gradual loss of motor control. Every few minutes, she studied his face as he closed his eyes – keeping them shut for so long that, each time, she believed in an odd form of relief that he had succumbed to the contamination, entirely surrendered, and died. Each time, though, he'd eventually open his weary eyes again. Each time, he drew in another measured breath and blinked away the sweat obviously clouding his vision.  
  
He was a fighter, and she watched his every round with increasing desperation. There was nothing she could do. When the time came, she could ease his pain and passage from this life to the next, but, for personal reasons, she refused to believe that was necessary. This man was proud – too proud – to ask for help. She trusted that he'd inevitably close his eyes and wander of his own accord into the eternal slumber before he ever imposed on another living being for mercy.  
  
Suddenly, he coughed – a first – and he gasped for air. Once he found his breath, he whispered, "Olga?"  
  
"Yes, Ebdon?"  
  
She watched as he swallowed visibly, his throat rolling from the effort.  
  
"Are you married?"  
  
She didn't want to talk about herself. Rather, she wanted to know more about him, but she wouldn't risk being impolite.  
  
"No," she replied.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I haven't found ... how is it you say ... Master Right?"  
  
"Mister Right?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Mister Right, my sweet," he said. "I think you meant to say 'Mister Right.' Not 'Master Right.' You're too smart, too classy, and too beautiful to ever call anyyou're your 'master.'"  
  
He said that word as if it were a curse.  
  
"I think it's painfully clear how I'm doing," he muttered, panting out the last few words. "So why don't you tell me how you're feeling, sweetheart?"  
  
Fighting back tears, she reached out with the cold damp cloth and sponged it across the man's forehead. "I'm feeling fortunate, Ebdon," she told him softly, "to be in the company of a true Southern gentleman."  
  
Slowly, he worked a smile from his tired muscles. "You're not cathin' me at my best, you know."  
  
"I know," she said.  
  
"I'm feelin' that chill in my bones again."  
  
She sniffled back tears inside her protective suit. "That'll pass, Ebdon."  
  
"Will it?"  
  
"I promise you," she offered.  
  
He closed his eyes again. "To tell you the truth ... I never much cared for cold feet," he confessed. A dab of spittle burped onto the corner of his mouth, and she wiped it away quickly. "That's why ... that's why I kept my family in Mississippi, right where they were all born and raised."  
  
Somewhere behind her, she heard the massive containment door unlatching. She listened to the groan of the immense aluminum door swinging open, and she trusted that the experts from the CDC had finally arrived.  
  
"Have you ... have you ever been to Mississippi, Olga?"  
  
Her mind cycling through hundreds of thoughts, she tried to concentrate on the dying man's question instead of surrendering to her emotions.  
  
"I don't believe that I have, Ebdon."  
  
Again, he worked a grin into his stiffened face. "The only thing you're missing ... is the humidity."  
  
She couldn't take it much longer. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to do something, to do anything, to help the man, but she remained powerless. Leaning closer to him, she brought her lips to his ear and whispered: "I would gladly welcome a little bit of moisture in the air, Ebdon, because I spend most of my time in the desert."  
  
"The desert?" he asked.  
  
"That's right."  
  
"Oh, Lordy," he mumbled, opening his eyes. With great effort, he turned his head slightly and glared at her. "What would ... what would the devil of a beauty like you be doing ... of all places ... in the desert?"  
  
She could answer him, or she could face a court martial. Her allegiance to the BackStep Program required signing, literally, hundreds of oaths of celibacy, but she didn't give one damn about that oath any more.  
  
"I work there," she compromised.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"This place? Where we are? We've brought you to ... well ... you can call it a special hospital ... of sorts." Again, she heard the rustling of protective boots hissing across the shielded floor. "That's what you can call it. A hospital. It serves many people, both near and far, for many possible illnesses. When we can, we take what's wrong, and we make it right. We fix things. We ... cure things." Again, she sniffled, blinking the tears away from her eyelashes. "It's been around for many years, but it wasn't until the last few years that it was equipped to deal with people suffering ... well, suffering as you are, Ebdon."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
She smiled, shaking her head. "We didn't have the tools."  
  
Feeling the pressure of a firm hand on her shoulder, Olga glanced up.  
  
Dr. Nina Welles stood, her eyes fixed with determination behind her protective faceplate, her mouth drawn into a thin line of purpose. In her outstretched hand, she held up a syringe, the instrument filled with a swirling, fluorescent, blue liquid. On the secure communications channel between the protective suits, she explained, "I'm giving you the tool you need, Dr. Vukavitch."  
  
Surprised, Olga stood bolt upright.  
  
"Take it," she ordered.  
  
"Is that the serum?" Olga quickly toggled on the private comm switch. "Dr. Welles, is that what I think it is?"  
  
"I wouldn't be offering it to you otherwise." She moved the needle closer to her counterpart. "It's Chronoticin," she explained. Smirking, she added, "100 proof. It just arrived along with a support medical team from my office at the CDC."  
  
Olga winced. She knew that the NSA would never authorize the administration of an untested, unclassified, and unproven antidote on a civilian. As it stood, Chronoticin was available in only extraordinarily limited supply. It was developed in total secrecy, only intended to be used on senior staff – the highest echelon of government – in the event of a temporal catastrophe of unprecedented proportions, and this – a frail old gentleman – certainly didn't apply. In fact, the clandestine clinical trials of the drug had only just begun. So far as Olga knew, the serum had yet to be tested on a victim suffering full exposure. She couldn't imagine what it would do to a man as weak as Ebdon Finkle, but she did know what it could mean for her career with the BackStep Program if something went so horribly wrong with an unauthorized test.  
  
"Nina," she tried, "I can't take that."  
  
"Take it."  
  
"I can't," she insisted.  
  
"Olga," the woman began, "if you don't administer it, I will."  
  
The two women locked eyes.  
  
"I've already lost someone I would like to have called a very dear friend," Nina confessed. "I met Alberto Ruiz two years ago. He was assigned briefly to the CDC not long after we discussed the phenomenon of temporal contamination." Olga saw the sparkle of tears forming at the corner of Nina's right eye. "We trained together for three weeks, and then he was gone ... sent into the field for what now only God knows was active duty." She shrugged. "Our paths crossed seven or eight times as we worked Temporal Ops in support of your Project BackStep." She glanced at the needle, and Olga knew that the physician was wondering what power could be unleashed with only a single dose. "I trained with Alberto. I worked with him. I barely knew him, Olga, but I stood there watching him die, and I cursed every lesson in science I had ever learned. Do you know why? It's because nothing I did to help had even a remote chance of saving him." Holding up the syringe, she stated emphatically, "I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here helpless and watch this man die ... not if this serum can stop it."  
  
"Nina, you know about the protocols ..."  
  
"Uncle Sam isn't in this room dictating protocols to either of us," Nina argued. "If he were, you'd have someone to argue with. I refuse. So, if it must come to this, then I'm ordering you to take this serum, and I'm ordering you to give it to this man."  
  
"You don't have any authority here."  
  
With conviction, she said, "The fact that I have a soul gives me the authority."  
  
"Nina, we don't even know if the antidote will work."  
  
"So what does he have to lose?"  
  
Finally, Olga realized that Nina was right. Arguing would only delay the inevitable: she was taking that syringe, and she was going to administer it to Ebdon Finkle, career and government and temporal contamination be damned.  
  
Reaching out, she took the syringe in her gloved hand and turned back to the table.  
  
Toggling off the intersuit communications link, she tried, "Ebdon?"  
  
"Yes, Olga?"  
  
Placing two fingers on his neck, she pinched his skin in order to bring a vein to the surface. In a moment, one appeared, filled with blood, and she pressed the needle's tip to the man's leathery flesh. She took a deep breath before she ordered, "Ebdon, I'm going to ask that you lie perfectly still ..."  
  
End of Chapter 33 


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34  
  
Six Days, Five Hours, Twenty-six Minutes  
  
"Thank you for calling the Heston Tower," the operator automatically announced in perfect, practiced English. "How may I direct your call?"  
  
From Manley's – the coffee shop directly across the street from the Heston – DeMarco sat peacefully, his cell phone pressed to his ear in one hand and his finger curled around the hook of a coffee cup with the other hand. He glanced up at the tall, gray, stone building – the exact place where not so long ago he had watched Arthur Pendley's limousine disappear. He trusted that Pendley was somewhere inside, but he had no possible idea as to where.  
  
"Yes," he replied, noticing the Washington-standard black sedan pull in front of the building. He watched as the young, red-uniformed valet scurried from his duty station over to where the car stopped and idled. The valet opened the door, allowing the vehicle passenger to step from the cool interior into the mid-afternoon sun. Oblivious to the young man, the occupant brushed past, marched toward the Heston's golden revolving door, and disappeared quickly between the twirling metal and glass panes. Focusing his attention back on the telephone call, DeMarco said, "I was hoping you would be so kind as to connect me with Senator Pendley's suite."  
  
"Senator Pendley?"  
  
"Senator Arthur Pendley," DeMarco repeated. "It was my understanding that the senator maintained a private residence at the Heston."  
  
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," the operator said, "but Senator Pendley does not – nor has he ever – retained a residence with the Heston."  
  
DeMarco was absolutely certain that he heard a familiarity in the operator's tone. Pendley lived there – of that, the man had no doubt – but the Heston's professional staff had been expertly trained in denial. Either way, it would make no difference to what had to come next. Smiling, he watched as the black car that had arrived slowly pulled away, aimlessly weaving into the busy D.C. traffic. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must have been misinformed."  
  
"No trouble at all, sir," he heard. "Thank you for your call."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Deactivating his cellular telephone, the man took a last swallow of coffee before rising from the table and leaving the café.  
  
*****  
  
The lobby was made of deep, stylish mahogany woodwork with rich marble floors and a welcome counter. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. DeMarco nodded at the concierge – a petite brunette wearing a charcoal gray suit accented by a pink blouse with black buttons – as he pushed past the revolving doors and walked up to the counter. A well- dressed young blonde man with a thin, surprisingly dark mustache met him with a rehearsed smile.  
  
"Welcome to the Heston," he said. "How may I help you today?"  
  
From the breast pocket on his suit coat, DeMarco pulled a thick leather wallet. Flipping it open, he showed the silver badge to the man. "Good afternoon," he replied easily. "I am Special Agent Rafael Jaurez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."  
  
"Yes, sir. How may I help you?"  
  
"Is the person who heads your hotel security on duty this afternoon?"  
  
"Is there a problem?"  
  
Not wanting to draw too much attention to the badge, DeMarco quickly stuck it away in his coat. "There may be," he explained to the young man, "but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my investigation with anyone other than your security chief. Would you call him please?"  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
Nonchalant, DeMarco stepped away from the counter a few feet. He glanced around the lobby, taking in the surroundings, studying the high windows with their deep velvet curtains and the ornate trim mould that adorned the crease where the walls met the ceiling. It was a rather unobtrusive design – very similar to other buildings he had visited in the greater District of Columbia area – and he suspected that such fundamental similarities only suited whatever Pendley's secret wishes were.  
  
Hearing footsteps behind, he turned and found a barrel-chested man in a black suit approached. Immediately, DeMarco extended his hand, and the man took it.  
  
"Good afternoon," he said, sounding official.  
  
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," DeMarco replied, immediately producing the badge he had taken off an FBI agent he had murdered on his last trip to Washington.  
  
"Of course. My name is Fred Gallick. I head up security here for the Heston Properties."  
  
"Heston Properties?" DeMarco raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean to say that there is more than just this building?"  
  
Gallick nodded. "Heston Properties manages several commercial and residential properties through the District of Columbia." Obviously curious, the man glanced around the lobby to make certain no one could overhear. "Is there something I should know, Agent Juarez?"  
  
DeMarco nodded. "Is there a place we may speak privately?"  
  
"We can speak in my office."  
  
"Perfect," he replied. "That would be best."  
  
*****  
  
The Security office was larger – and far more decadent – than DeMarco would've guessed, but he had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of American tastes. More mahogany woodwork and marble floors. A massive wooden desk. Overstuffed rich leather chairs. Several paintings of obvious historical significance with special lighting. A wall of television screens – clearly video footage from security cameras positioned throughout 'high risk' areas of Heston Tower. A large office meant a large ego, and he trusted that Mr. Gallick would only serve as further proof to the long-held hypothesis.  
  
"How can I be of service to the FBI today, Mr. Juarez?" the security head asked, taking a chair behind the desk.  
  
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," DeMarco tried, hoping to gradually bring the man into his confidence. "I've no doubt that you're a very busy man, but, in times like today, the Country appreciates your cooperation."  
  
"It's not a problem."  
  
Sitting before the desk, DeMarco admired the painting hanging on the wall directly behind Gallick. It showed what looked to be a burning village countryside with a long line of peasants, marching in unison, carrying what little belongings they hand. In the blue sky over their heads drifted a single bird – perhaps an eagle – on outstretched wings. DeMarco had seen the painting before – was it in a book? He couldn't remember, but he did recall the name.  
  
"'The Sacrifice of Purpose,'" he said.  
  
Gallick smiled. "You know Verlardi's work?"  
  
"I'm familiar with this piece," he replied. "The ransacked village – destroyed by an unseen marauder – and the plight of the survivors across fertile grounds ... all the while being watched by a solitary bird." He smiled. "Somewhat appropriate for this painting to be found in the office for the director of security, no?"  
  
The director nodded. "I think so."  
  
"You have magnificent taste."  
  
"Thank you, Agent Juarez."  
  
DeMarco waved a hand. "But, of course, I am not here to admire the Heston's decoration."  
  
"I wouldn't presume as much."  
  
He cradled his hands on the arms of chair in which he sat. "Mr. Gallick, I assume the Bureau has provided you with a recent copy of our memorandum on District of Columbia area properties that – based on the properties of their construction – might serve as possible targets in the event of terrorist activity?"  
  
Slowly, Gallick shook his head. "I don't believe I've read anything of the sort," he explained. "Of course, since late 2001, there have been hundreds if not thousands of circulated memos of building fortification against terrorist attack. For months after 9/11, there wasn't a day that something on the subject didn't find its way to my desk or email. I know that I recently requested and received a copy of something which sounds similar to your publication from the Department of Homeland Security."  
  
DeMarco smiled. "The documents are very similar," he lied. "As a matter of fact, much of what was written by the Bureau is predicated on the extensive background of Homeland Security's research."  
  
The director relaxed a bit in his chair. "Well, the government does recycle many of its finer ideas from one agency to another."  
  
"How true. I am curious as to – based upon your readings – how you find that the Heston would survive a possible terrorist event?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, the man tried, "Are you aware of a specific threat made against our building?"  
  
Immediately, DeMarco held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Gallick. As you know, those matters are handled directly by Homeland Security in coordination with local law enforcement. I give you my word on that. However, as the Bureau has taken great steps to behave far more proactively in light of probable threats to our country's safety, I am simply doing as I've been instructed, making the rounds – as you say – discussing independent security matters in light of our recent publication."  
  
The director shrugged. "I would imagine, then, that the Heston would meet if not exceed any expectations that Homeland Security or the FBI would ask of us." He held up a hand and ticked of his talking points with his fingers. "First, we're fully automated with surveillance cameras throughout the property. No one – not a single man, woman, or child alive – is walking in or around this building without the activity being put on record. Second, our lobby, shared hallways and conference rooms, as well as the street out front are fitted with state of the art audio surveillance equipment, recently approved by our owner. I'll tell you that the wind doesn't whisper without one of my staff overhearing it. Third, I have at least five trained security personnel on the clock – around the clock – should any incident arise. I wish it were more, but, given the budget, that's all I can afford for this fiscal year. Last, every member of the Heston's staff is fully trained to handle to any and all civil tactical needs as outlined by last year's 'Primary Response Memo' from the CIA." He laid his hand on the desk. "Given our readiness, I can say with absolute certainty that my team would answer the call to duty if it became necessary."  
  
Drawing his lips tight, DeMarco nodded. "That is very reassuring, Mr. Gallick, but – in my conversations with some of the neighboring facilities – I am finding that not staff but guests should be of greater concern."  
  
"Guests?"  
  
"Yes," he answered. "Let me speak more plainly, and I think you will understand. Of course, none of us could've predicted the events of September 11th, and I'm quite certain that all of us remember the lack of substantive immediate response once it was assumed that America, in fact, had been attacked by terrorists."  
  
"Immediate response?" Gallick asked. "What do you mean, agent? I think the President and the entire government did everything possibly ... given what we knew and when we knew it."  
  
"I did not myself clear," DeMarco quickly corrected. "I am not doubting the President's action. I would never question the authority of our nation's highest official. I would, however, question the measure of safety provided to average American citizen." Gesturing at the room, he continued, "For the purposes of hypothetical discussion, what efforts have you placed into motion to secure the lives of your guests, Mr. Gallick? As you well know, Washington is a high profile target – if not the highest. Given that reality, what measures are you willing to take to protect human life?"  
  
Nodding, Gallick explained, "The Heston recently underwent an extensive overhaul to reinforce the subterranean levels of our property."  
  
"Recently?"  
  
"Last year," the man continued. "After our Board of Directors was able to assess what efforts would substantially increase protection of the property and the lives within, they drew up their own plan of action. With the advice of several consulting firms, they agreed that a stronger foundation was necessary were the Heston to ever serve as a target for even a chemical or biological attack. The construction to further stabilize our undergrounds – Levels One through Five – began in March and ended in September." From his top desk drawer, Gallick produced a concise blueprint on 8 ½ by 11 inches laminated cardstock paper. As a schematic, it showed the Tower broken down, by floors, with twenty-five floors above ground and seven below. Laying it on the desk in front of DeMarco, the security director pointed to the blueprint. "You can see here that Levels One and Two were given a cursory overhaul. Most of their space serves primarily as parking facilities for our guests, and it was determined, after some debate, that protecting some Congressional page's BMW wasn't nearly as important as saving the page's life." Tapping a finger to the lowest portion of the construction, he explained, "As a result, the Board of Directors agreed to renovate underground levels Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven to withstand even an earthquake should one take place."  
  
"What magnitude?"  
  
"I believe the architects felt the substructure could survive up to an eight-point-seven-five on the Richter scale," Gallick answered. "As they explained, it's entirely impossible to construct a truly impenetrable or indestructible residence – especially when you factor in space considerations and maintenance needs for a building the size of the Heston – but we're pretty rock solid by contemporary standards."  
  
DeMarco nodded, clearly impressed. "So, what you're saying is that, in the unlikely event of any terrorist event, your staff and guests would be evacuated into the lowest levels of the Heston?"  
  
The director released a minor grimace. "Well, Levels Three, Four, Five, and Six would be the most likely havens for staff and guests."  
  
"What about Level Seven?"  
  
"Seven is presently occupied by Darlington Industries," Gallick explained. "Their lease is open-ended, and it's co-signed by the Department of Defense."  
  
Feigning confusing, DeMarco tried, "Sir, are you trying to tell me that Level Seven is completely off limits in the event of some catastrophe?"  
  
Quickly, Gallick held up his hands. "No, no, no," he pressed, taking the offensive. "Not entirely. There are simply certain environmental concerns that would have to be justified first before the leaseholders at Darlington would allow civilians into their facility."  
  
"It does not please me to hear that you would place the value of property above the value of human life, Mr. Gallick."  
  
"You have to understand, Agent Juarez," the director responded. "This isn't my decision, nor would it be in the event of any attack. The decision is shared between the Department of Defense and the head of Darlington Technologies." Trying to distance himself from questions he found uncomfortable, Gallick added, "I've been assured that – should the space be needed – any guests of the Heston could be accommodated."  
  
DeMarco shook his head. "I was not aware of this policy," he said firmly, "and I will have to bring it to the attention of my supervisors."  
  
"Please do," Gallick agreed. "I haven't been comfortable with it since the renovation, but there's only so much a man in my position can do." Hoping to appease the agent, he said, "Maybe some prodding on the part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation might get this issue open for greater discussion."  
  
Level Seven. That's where Pendley was. That's where – whatever he was up to – DeMarco knew he had to get. It wouldn't be easy, but, he would have to find some way down there, and it would have to be soon.  
  
"Indeed, Mr. Gallick," DeMarco stated, "I give you my word – one man to another – that something will definitely come of Darlington's decision to hold the value of human life in judgment."  
  
End of Chapter 34 


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35  
  
Six Days, Four Hours, Fifty-Eight Minutes  
  
On the mattress, Frank Parker lie perfectly still, his arm under the pillow and his head cradled in softness. He kept his eyes closed, trying to do as Talmadge had instructed, trying to get some quality sleep, but the reality of his situation kept nagging him from any true prospect of rest.  
  
Was he really a danger to everyone around him?  
  
Backstepping became the purpose behind his existence – a fragile one, he knew, but weren't they all? After being recruited to the program – after being given the chance to redeem himself in the eyes of a government he had long served and believed betrayed – Parker dedicated himself to being the best that he could once more. He committed his efforts to becoming a chrononaut – to making a difference in not one, not two, not three, but in the millions of lives he would never see, never know, and never touch in any other way but making things right. Sure, he continued to drink. Sure, he continued to womanize. He was human, after all, and he accepted the psychological and physical baggage that came along with the flesh, but backstepping – in its own logical and illogical ways – excused those inconsequential flaws. You save the world, you open a six-pack. It went hand-in-hand, as far as he was concerned. Who wouldn't toss back a stiff shot of Jack Daniels after righting the wrong of nuclear annihilation? His job – if there were any – drove him to drink, but it never impaired his ability to correct injustices. He never allowed that to happen.  
  
But here ...?  
  
And now ...?  
  
The fact of his mere presence – the principle of temporal contamination – posed a threat to every person he would encounter. Frank Parker – United States Government highly classified savior of the planet itself, humankind's best kept secret – couldn't so much as walk a single city street without unleashing a plague of epic proportions in his wake. Whomever he came in contact with – if he believed what he had learned in the last few hours – would die. Whomever he met would become a statistic. Whomever he touched was doomed. Each person would suffer an excruciatingly painful demise – not a simple winking out or a peaceful passing over onto the other side – and these deaths would be his fault. How could he do his job? How could he save this world? How was anything possible? If what Mentnor said were true – if saving this world meant the very survival of two unique timelines – how could he do any good?  
  
"Sleep," he muttered to himself. "Quit fooling yourself, Parker. Like you're going to catch forty winks with this kind of weight on your shoulders."  
  
"You don't deserve any rest," he heard.  
Rolling over, Parker faced the glass. On the other side stood a man – a tall, trim, athletic blond – whom he didn't recognize.  
  
"I just watched three men – three very well educated and gifted field agents in the service of the CDC – die," the man explained, his face giving no hint of emotion. "I knew each of them from years of service to this country. One of them – hell, one of them I even trained with, for a short time, in the Central Intelligence Agency." The man heaved a heavy sighed as his eyes momentarily glazed over. "But I stood there, and I watched each of their faces lose hope, Frank. I watched helplessly as their bodies tried to sweat the poison you brought with you when you crossed into this world attacked their immune systems. I watched each man as he shriveled up on the hospital gurney. I watched as their vitals dipped below safe levels, and their bodies crashed. I watched as the med techs tried without hope to revive each of them when their hearts stopped and their souls drifted to wherever souls go once the body fails ... and, now, I'm standing here watching you."  
  
Parker didn't say anything.  
  
"You're alive," the man continued. "You're alive, and you're lying here in perfect health. Hell, you're practically a specimen of good health, put in a tank and on display. Kept under glass." His words trailed off, but, finally, the man smirked. "You're like a relic, Frank. A national treasure – locked away under lock and key – placed on display for anyone who'd want to walk up and see him. You're a museum piece ... only, this time, there's no audience waiting in line to admire the great Frank Parker."  
  
"Do I know you, pal?"  
  
"You're about to get to know me."  
  
"If that's the case, then I sure as hell don't like what I've learned so far. How does that sound to you?"  
  
The man laughed briefly.  
  
"Is something funny about what I asked you, or are you just looking to release some misdirected testosterone at the wrong time and the wrong place?" Parker pressed harder, rising easily from the bunk and approaching the transparency.  
  
The blond leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. If he were unnerved in any way, he didn't show it.  
  
"I should be asking you the same question," he replied.  
  
Locking eyes with the man, Parker said, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened to your friends. I am. If I had known that this was going to happen when I came out of the Backstep, then you take my word from one man to another that I damn straight never would have stepped into the Sphere ... but that isn't my job. I'm the chimp, you know? I'm the glorified monkey on each and every one of these test experiments, and there is no way possible for me to know what's waiting for me at the end of the time tunnel I'm forced down each and every time I get into it." Taking a breath, Parker forced himself to relax, to calm, but he saw the sarcastic expression on the blond man's face, and he couldn't help himself any longer. "Maybe you think there's something terribly funny about this situation that we find ourselves in, but I've been leaping through time long enough to know that – if there's one thing any person involved with Project Backstep should have – it's a healthy sense of humor. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what you think is so damn funny about all of this."  
  
Unflinching, the man said, "I think you're funny, Frank."  
  
"How do you know my name?"  
  
"The legendary Frank Parker?" he offered.  
  
"You can drop the 'legendary,'" Parker spat. "You've been calling me Frank since you walked up to the glass. There's no reason to be any nastier than you've already been, blondie."  
  
"But shouldn't all of us know your name, Frank? Shouldn't all of us get down on our knees and worship the very soil you tread upon?" Righting himself, dropping his hands to his side, the man continued. "Or, now that you've become a menace to every possible cause you've ever served, why should we consider you anything but a laughing stock? A cartoon of your former self? An animal that instead of being put away safely in a cage should be killed, dissected, and studied so that not a single good man, woman, or child ever has to die again?"  
  
Parker felt his rising anger, and he knew the man was only trying to intentionally piss him off.  
  
"I've asked you your name," the chrononaut stated flatly. "I won't ask you again, and the only thing from beating it out of you is this glass that neither of us seems to be fond of ... so, why don't you do the both of us a favor, blondie? Why don't you go back down the corridor, make whatever turn you need to, and find the door that lets you inside here, and then the two of us can finish this conversation man-to-man?"  
  
Sighing as if bored with Parker's refusal to admit any wrongdoing, the man smiled. "My name is Channing Michelson."  
  
"Channing?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
"And what do you do around here, Channing?" Parker tried.  
  
"What do I do?"  
  
"That's right," he said. "Are you hard of hearing, or are you just good old-fashioned dumb?"  
  
Michelson stiffened at the insult.  
  
"What?" Parker asked. "Are you anybody important associated to the Backstep Program? No? Are you a security guard who woke up one morning and decided he should be in charge of the missions around here? Are you one of the technicians trained to refit the Sphere after it goes through another time warp? Or are you nothing more than a janitor who's lost his broom?"  
  
Michelson lost his smile. "I'm the present chrononaut."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"It is."  
  
"You took as the lead chimp when I sacrificed myself on 9/11?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
Parker relaxed where he stood. "Then you of all people should understand how high up to my elbows I'm standing in your bullshit right now."  
  
"Is that it?"  
  
"So far as I see it, Channing, there's nothing else to see here. If you could see past your own stupidity, then you might reach the same conclusion."  
  
Slowly, Michelson shook his head. "Don't expect any pity from me."  
  
"Pity?"  
  
"Yes," he said. "Isn't that what you want?"  
  
Frustrated, Parker leaned one hand on the glass and drew his body closer to the man. "Pal, you're one misguided son-of-a-bitch! While you're preaching on about pity, we should be talking about saving life as we know it!"  
  
"I wouldn't argue with that," Michelson retorted, "and, so long as you're stuck in this timeline, life itself remains in the greatest jeopardy."  
  
"And you think that's my fault?"  
  
"Who else is there to blame, Frank?"  
  
Aghast, Parker held back his reply.  
  
"Isn't that what's bothering you, Frank? You want to help, but you can't dismiss the guilt?"  
  
The caged chrononaut didn't say a word.  
  
"I mean ... you do want to help, don't you, Frank?" Michelson asked. "You want to rush out there like Frank Parker has always done, eh? The temporal cowboy on his personal crusade to alter the flow of events? You want to run out there, catch Black Bart, save the world, kiss the girl, and come back home to throw it all aside over a case of beer? Just you and your buddy, Donovan?" The man blinked several times, feigning any real interest in Parker's dilemma. "Tell me where I've missed a step, Frank. I'll be glad to walk you through it again."  
  
Again, Parker restrained himself – he held back the torrent of anger he wanted to unleash on the man – and he stood there, facing the glass, ignoring the obvious taunts.  
  
"What is it that's upsetting you most?" Michelson pried. "Help me to understand you, and I'll be glad to disappear. You know a thing or two about disappearing, if I've read the file correctly. You never cared much for being kept in your quarters, Frank, so you found your way through some of the facility's ventilation ducts into your own private space ... a place where you could escape, read, think, drink, or do whatever else you believe personally justified your continued participation in the program, right? I mean ... that's how serious you took this job, Frank. As I said, it's in your file. You deserved your privacy. Now, you have it ... and you're still not happy? So, tell me what it is, and I'll walk away."  
  
Parker held his tongue. He wasn't going to cater to the angry man, and he certainly knew better than to cater to an angry man who had just watched three men die.  
  
"Tell me, Frank," Michelson persisted. "Is it really about not being able to rush out there and do some good ... or is it that – for once in your life – you're completely unable to kiss the girl?"  
  
"What's your problem with me, Channing?" Parker gave the man. "What is it? Did I do my job too well for you to handle? Did I set the bar too high? Are you ashamed to follow in my footsteps? What?"  
  
"You're my problem, Frank," Michelson told him. "You've always been my problem. For the record, you were nothing but a problem to this entire program. I'm not talking about the tricks you pulled on security. I'm not talking about the disrespect you showed Bradley. I'm not talking about the pranks you pulled on Ramsey. I'm talking about just plain you." He gasped an angry breath when he said, "There are plenty of folks at the NSA who went on record after your death to say so. People whom you thought were your friends, your supporters? They bailed on you, Frank, and they did so because you were a risk to their careers. The people who really mattered to the long term success of a program like Backstep asked for re-assignment after that stunt you pulled on 9/11. They gave up the opportunity of not only their lifetime but, perhaps, the lifetime of humanity's existence all because they didn't want to be anywhere near any secret Senate subcommittee investigating what you did for the course of human history." Michelson's face had grown red. He paused, catching his breath, and added, "In your short, sorry life, you were more of a national disgrace than you'll possibly ever know."  
  
Parker didn't say a word.  
  
Exhausted with his vicious reply, Michelson nodded his head. "All things considered, I don't think I need to worry about you any longer."  
  
Grimacing, Parker said, "It sounds like you have it all figured out, Channing."  
  
Michelson cocked his head. "Come on, Frank. None of us – not even you – have it all figured out. If we did, then there wouldn't be the need for any Backsteps ever, don't you think?"  
  
Parker considered the alternatives. Given what he knew and Michelson's disposition, he didn't know what to say.  
  
"You can relax, and you can leave the dirty work to the adults now, Frank," the blond finally answered his own question.  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"I'd bet my career on it."  
  
"No thanks," Parker denied. "I've already had your career. I wouldn't want another."  
  
"You're crazier than your psych profile indicates if you think that the NSA will allow Bradley Talmadge to let you out of here any time soon, cowboy" the blond finally answered his own question. "No. You're going to sit here while the rest of us do whatever it is that's completely necessary to fix this mess of yours." Pointing at the chrononaut sealed behind the glass wall, Michelson added, "And I'm going to personally see to it that you don't so much as take a single breath any where near Olga ever again."  
  
Olga?  
  
"Olga?" Parker asked, surprised.  
  
"You heard me."  
  
Finished with his tirade, Michelson turned and started up the hallway. His steps were quick and stiff.  
  
"Channing, what does any of this have to do with Olga?"  
  
Craning his neck, the blond tried, "Wasn't it always about Olga with you, Frank?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
Smiling back at the glass wall, Michelson continued to walk away.  
  
End of Chapter 35 


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36  
  
Six Days, Four Hours, Thirty Minutes  
  
Casually, DeMarco glanced up and down the busy, bustling Washington, D.C. street. He realized – in that moment – that no one was ever truly alone in America. There was always someone else around. The women strolling from building to building, from shop to shop, taking in a meal with their special friends or trying a catch a bite between company meetings. The men marching to and fro, serving their country or their industry all for the sake of keeping a roof over their head and putting food on the table. In a country so large, he had imagined that eventually he would find a lonely corner – an unforgiving place that time and technology had forgotten much like so much of his homeland. In America, it wasn't so.  
  
'Plenty of targets,' he thought, smiling to himself.  
  
Quickly, he stepped into the kiosk, picked up the receiver, dropped a few coins into the slot and dialed the phone number he had scribbled on the back of his hand. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Finally, he heard the click of the line going active.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
DeMarco said, "Yes, hello. Is this the Dorantes residence?"  
  
"It is."  
  
"I was hoping that you could help me locate a friend of mine," he tried. "You see, I'm visiting the District of Columbia. A tourist. I'm in from Michigan. I was supposed to meet my friend this morning for breakfast, but I missed him. I was visiting my great-grandfather's grave at Arlington National Cemetery, and I lost track of time. He gave me this telephone number to call if I was in the city."  
  
"Where did you say you were from?"  
  
DeMarco grinned. He loved playing cloak-and-dagger, despite the fact that the international intelligence community had taken much of the fun out of it. "Alpena, Michigan."  
  
The person on the telephone flatly replied, "Mr. Dorantes is at the discussed location," and hung up.  
  
Dropping the receiver onto its cradle, DeMarco walked across the street into the Thirteen Stripes Delicatessen. A tall man under a white apron met him at the door and escorted him past the dining patrons into the eatery's rear hallway. Together, they entered through a door marked 'Employees Only' and walked down the stairs into the basement. The dimly lit space sheltered boxes of stored breads and canned goods. Behind the boxes, they found a small marble table with two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by an American in blue jeans and a long-sleeve, button-down blue Oxford shirt. The man had rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and he sipped from a tall glass of bubbling soda. Seeing DeMarco's arrival, he rose, extended his arms, and the two men embraced.  
  
"It's good to see you, Rick," the man said with genuine warmth.  
  
"It is always a comfort to see you, Matthew," DeMarco replied.  
  
With the wave of his hand, the denim-wearing man dismissed his help, and the two terrorists sat at the small table.  
  
"What is this?" DeMarco asked, gesturing at the tall glass of soda. "I thought you would be drinking whiskey from an open bottle!"  
  
Matthew nodded. "There is plenty of time for whiskey, my friend," he replied, a hint of his Southern accent trailing his syllables. "But, alas, I am trying to give up the grain, as they say."  
  
"What? Give up drinking?" DeMarco opened his eyes in mock alarm. The two men laughed. "What poisoned mind would even entertain such a crazy notion?"  
  
"You get along in years like I am, and you start to take a little better care of your body each passing day," Matthew explained. "Isn't that what your people believe? You treat your body like a temple?"  
  
DeMarco waved. "My people believe many things, some of them useful, but most of them are foolish." Pointing at the glass, he tried, "I would hope you might have another for a friend?"  
  
Matthew raised his hand into the air and waggled a finger. Through a curtained doorway behind him stepped a short redhead woman. Like him, she wore jeans and a button-down shirt. She smiled, and DeMarco found her stunning, as he did most American women.  
  
"Who is this?" he asked.  
  
"This is Lisa," Matthew answered. "And you'll do yourself some good to keep your hands off her, Rick."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"That's right," the man said. "She happens to be my little sister."  
  
"Really?" With pleasure, DeMarco extended his hand to the young woman. She took it, and he squeezed pleasantly. "I never knew you had a family."  
  
"Well, I've tried to keep mine hidden for as long as I can," Matthew explained, "but I figured that the War on Terror might eventually lead Uncle Sam to knock on my door. She's always wanted to get a foot in the business, so I figured there was no better time than the present ... isn't that right, little sister?"  
  
Lisa wore her hair short in an almost mannish cut. For her size, she had a long, sensual neck, and she kept it on display with her shirt unbuttoned down to the upper curve of her breasts. DeMarco could tell that – despite the fabric – she wasn't wearing any bra.  
  
"How do you do, Mr. DeMarco?"  
  
Rising, DeMarco released her hand and, instead, pulled her closer to him in a bear hug. She laughed, and he laughed with her. When he let her go, he held her at arms length so that he could admire her Southern beauty.  
  
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lisa," he said, "but I insist that, like your brother has done for so many years, that you skip any formality and call me 'Rick.' As you will no doubt learn from him, our business tends to work far more effectively when we stay on a first-name-basis."  
  
She grinned up at the charming foreigner. "Then it is my pleasure to meet you, Rick," she told him. "Can I get you something?"  
  
"I'll have whatever cola Matthew is drinking," the man replied. "Your brother is a good man, and, so long as I've know him, he's always impressed me with impeccably good tastes. Whatever he's drinking – despite the presence of any alcohol – is good enough for this old friend of your family. We will drink it together ... for our mutual health."  
  
"Coming right up," she said, and she disappeared behind the curtain.  
  
"Matthew," DeMarco began as he slipped into his chair, "she is absolutely lovely."  
  
Smiling back at him, the man warned teasingly, "You just remember what I said about keeping your hands off that little girl."  
  
Holding up his hands in a show of surrender, the foreigner laughed. "I would never serve insult to you or to your family ... despite her obvious gifts."  
  
"She's a peach, she is."  
  
"The blood of your family has obviously been blessed."  
  
"Isn't that what it's all about these days?"  
  
DeMarco glanced around the well-stocked basement as he replied, "I think it has been that way for thousands of years, Matthew. Despite the lessons of history, the world – and those who inhabit it – has chosen to ... to believe otherwise in their dreams of peace and happiness."  
  
"Misguided flocks," he said. "Isn't it a crock?"  
  
"It has always been."  
  
The curtain rustled, and Lisa appeared. She carried the glass to the table, dragging behind her a third chair. After she placed the drink in front of her guest, she promptly settled into her seat, smiling across the table at DeMarco.  
  
"So where have you been keeping yourself these days, Rick?"  
  
DeMarco smiled, taking his eyes off the American beauty and relaxing in his chair. He cleared his throat. "I finished my business at home," he explained flatly, any trace of emotion hidden from his voice. "Now ... now I have come to America to conduct my final affair."  
  
Matthew nodded grimly. "I heard about your mother."  
  
DeMarco studied his friend's eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry for your loss, Rick."  
  
Relaxing his hold on the glass, the man brought it up to his mouth and sipped. The cola stung his tongue – he never cared much for anything other than alcohol himself – but he ignored the sensation and continued drinking. Slowly, he finished swallowing and set the glass back onto the marble tabletop. "Yes," he said. "She died as she lived. She wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would her God. And, yes, it was ... it was a tragedy."  
  
"You're damn right," Matthew agreed. "Your mother was a great woman, Rick. She was one of the first I met when I was dealing arms in Turkey. Despite what the worldwide media might have you think, she was a patriot in her own right ... perhaps one of the last of her kind." The southerner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Whoever took that woman from God's green Earth doesn't deserve to breathe the same air we do."  
  
DeMarco suddenly grew silent.  
  
"You took care of the bastards who did it?"  
  
The man craned his neck momentarily, trying to work out a sudden kink. "No," he answered. "I haven't the means. The international military? It has grown too large and too complex to service any singular purpose of good. They're far more interested in capture of information, the hunt for a single villain, or the delivery of humanitarian aid than they are in answering the call to justice whether it come from a nation or from one man, acting alone, on a mission of vengeance." He sighed. "I eliminated those in my country whose conspiracy brought about her death, but there is a person who eludes me ... well, I should say, that he is under the mistaken impression that he had eluded me."  
  
"Here?" Matthew asked, sounding surprised. "This man is in the United States?"  
  
Simply, DeMarco nodded. "He's in this very city, Matthew."  
  
"Is that why you've come here?"  
  
Finally, his neck popped, and the kink dissolved. The man brought his hand up to his neck to massage it, but, before he could begin grinding into the muscle, Lisa rose out of her chair, stepping comfortably behind him, and he felt her soft, small fingers on his shoulder. She tightened them, working her thumb closer and closer toward the base of his scalp with a practiced eagerness.  
  
Relaxing, DeMarco tried, "I hope you will note for the record, Matthew, that it was not I who first put my hands on your little sister but, rather, it was she who placed her hands on me."  
  
Matthew chuckled. "Like I said, Rick. She's learning the business."  
  
DeMarco felt her welcome warm breath on the back of his neck as she continued to work his aching muscles. "She's doing a very fine job."  
  
"Tell me what you need, and it's yours."  
  
The man leaned forward as Lisa pressed lightly on the back of his head. Her fingers prodded the tissue surrounding his raised vertebrae. Unintentionally, his head bobbed softly to the left and the right. He closed his eyes. For several moments, he enjoyed the peace the young woman brought him. It had been so long since he had experienced any calm, any joy. Here he was ... sitting in the basement of a Washington café ... sitting in the heart of the land he had only known his entire life as his very enemy ... but he finally relaxed despite the painful reality of his life, of his situation, of his loss ... and he knew, at last, he was among friends.  
  
DeMarco forced down the lump in his throat. He felt a tear forming at the corner of his eyes, and he knew no shame when it slipped down his cheek.  
  
"I will tell you everything that I need, Matthew," he said, "in good time."  
  
End of Chapter 36 


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37  
  
Six Days, Four Hours, Five Minutes  
  
Waiting always drove Craig Donovan insane.  
  
It wasn't as if he wasn't a patient man. Much to the contrary. His tenure with BackStep alone was predicated on his ability to remain patient. Not with piloting the Sphere. He never really believed he would be given that opportunity. While he had the skills, he knew that his pain threshold wasn't nearly as high as Frank Parker's. Rather, his patience was always tested when a conundrum appeared. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. It was the never-ending scenario. Parker would telephone in from whatever location he had landed at this mission, and then Donovan would mobilize a response – with the necessary materials and manpower – only for the sole purpose of 'waiting' until their skills were required. On countless occasions, Parker did what Parker always did: he acted alone. The mission didn't necessarily call for a single agent, but the reality of time travel almost made it inevitable. Frank would have only so much time to coordinate once he arrived seven days ago, and Donovan – loyal, faithful friend – would wait for the call to duty. It wasn't as if Donovan never saw any action during his assignment with BackStep. He endured plenty. Most of it, however, was clean-up operations ... after the meat and potatoes had been savored by his lifelong friend.  
  
'Waiting,' he thought. 'It's enough to kill a man.'  
  
He did as he was instructed by Nate Ramsey. He sat there, in his office at the branch NSA office, knowing that eventually he would receive a teleconference call from one of the nation's most clandestine military bases in Nevada. Then – and only then – would he be given any explanation for the turn of events that involved his re-activation to Project BackStep as well as the reappearance of Frank Parker.  
  
In the meantime, he still had a job to do.  
  
The divisional secretary had seen to it that Donovan was provided with all of the Daily Stateside Threat Matrix – DSTMs – provided this morning, and, his concentration wavering, he pulled open the package and let the contents spill out onto his desk. The packet didn't seem any thicker today than it had been yesterday ... or the day before ... and he quickly immersed himself in reviewing any and all catalogued activity. From what he read, he learned that the Department of Homeland Security had suggested to the President that the Terror Alert Status be upgraded as a result of some recorded cellular communications in and around Tel Aviv, a conversation that suggested a threat against the Israeli Embassy. He learned that some Central Intelligence Agency operatives stationed outside Munich had intercepted a transport containing 'fissionable materials,' and it was believed that these materials were actually part of a shipment bound for Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where a splinter group of an unnamed Islamic sect was hoping to irradiate the water supply. He learned that computer hackers situated somewhere in or around the greater Denver area had managed to break into the United States Department of Defense personnel files, and they were threatening to auction the names of field personnel located in 'hot' locations overseas to known terrorist nations. Mostly, Craig Donovan learned that each and every day had become much like his experience with Project BackStep: so much more of the same thing.  
  
There were always bad guys, and these bad guys were always out to get the good guys. It was his job to make sure that, despite whatever odds, they wouldn't succeed.  
  
As the world had grown more complex, the simplicity of evil continued to dominate so much of his life that Donovan wasn't certain there was an ounce of goodness left in the world. Certainly, if there was, it was in small supply.  
  
Cheryl popped in with her usual office smile and delivered the domestic updates to his DSTMs. He smiled his customary thanks at her, and she disappeared, leaving him with another small mountain of paperwork of today's events that the Agency deemed to be of lesser significance ... but still important. As usual, he shuffled through the pile – most of it consisted of photocopies of articles from stateside newspapers, stories that someone in the higher echelon of the NSA felt 'could' be worth following – and Donovan usually found these items of greater interest. Unlike the Agency memorandum, these were more people-oriented: they were stories about deaths, accidents, and other tragedies. Because they were largely about citizens of the United States, he could appreciate them more for the simple fact that he could put a face with a name. It always meant more to him when he could link a face and a name.  
  
From the updates, he learned that an unregistered religious sect – insert "cult," he thought – in the Arkansas backwoods was claiming in printed propaganda to have nuclear weapons thanks to the Divine Providence of the Lord.  
  
"Wonderful," he said to himself. "It's not dangerous enough to know that China has the bomb. Now, Billy Bob has one. That's just great."  
  
Further down in the stack, he learned that some man in eastern Idaho was alleging to have sold military secrets to Iran for the last twelve years. He learned that a public transportation accident in Chicago was being blamed on some Vietnamese terrorist group he had never even heard of. Even further down the stack, Donovan learned from an Agency memo that a public storage facility outside the D.C. metro area had been destroyed in what initially appeared to be an act of arson. The memo stated that investigators on the scene had divulged some 'curious circumstances' associated to one of the tenants. Down along the bottom of the page, Donovan read that the circumstances related to the fire being started in a storage unit that held only illegally-obtained Nine Millimeter weapons.  
  
"Wait a minute," he muttered, rereading the passage he had read. "Who in their right mind commits arson to destroy firearms?" He pulled the memo away from the stack to give it a closer read. "That does not compute."  
  
Picking up the telephone, he dialed a number he had fingered once too often.  
  
"Guerrero, here," he heard.  
  
"Marty," Donovan said. "Guess who?"  
  
"Donovan?"  
  
"None other."  
  
"Hell, Donovan, you've already ruined my day once," Detective Guerrero said. "Why do you and the NSA want to give it another try?"  
  
"Easy, killer," Donovan replied. "I'm not out to ruin your day. I want to know what the word is on that storage facility fire outside of D.C. this morning."  
  
"You're not talking about that Essential Storage fire, are you?" he asked. "Craig, that fire was only a matter of hours ago. They're probably still pouring water on the ashes. What makes you think there's any word on the street about that?"  
  
Donovan smiled. "Come on, Marty. They trace the fire to a parcel containing stolen firearms. Who starts a fire to burn something that won't burn?"  
  
"Someone looking to get attention," he heard.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"How's the owner for a collar?"  
  
"The owner?" Guerrero asked. "You're shooting blanks on that angle."  
  
"Funny man."  
  
"No, the owner maintained residence on the premises," the detective explained. "He's presently being treated for smoke inhalation. You know the profile as well as I do, Craig. An arsonist doesn't hang around to breathe in the fumes. He wants to fan the flames ... or end up being a fan of them, if you catch my drift. I think the owner's clean on this."  
  
"What then?" Donovan queried. "Are we talking about a disgruntled tenant?"  
  
"Who knows? It's way too early to tell. I know that they're still trying to track down the fellow to whom the lot was registered. Like I said, we haven't really had the chance to question the owner, given his condition, but I'll give you call once we do ... since Uncle Sam did what he thinks was a 'solid' this morning, I guess it's the least I could do to return the favor."  
  
"How big was the stockpile of weapons?"  
  
"The nines?" Guerrero asked, referring to the weapons' caliber. "It was pretty large. I understand that the parcel was filled with guns, not just nines, though. There was enough there to outfit a small army, if one were so inclined."  
  
"But it doesn't make any sense," Donovan insisted. "Guns aren't going to burn. What did the arsonist want to hide?"  
  
"My sense is that whoever did this wasn't interested in trying to hide anything," the detective replied. "At best, it was a sucker with a guilty conscience who decided he'd best get out of the gun-trafficking business before someone took him out of it permanently."  
  
"A very well-funded sucker," Donovan piped.  
  
"That he was."  
  
"Keep me posted, will you?"  
  
"Like I said," Guerrero offered, "one 'solid' deserves another."  
  
End of Chapter 37 


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38  
  
Six Days, Three Hours, Twenty-Two Minutes  
  
It had taken Isaac Mentnor many years to grow accustomed to technology. Computers – despite their gifts of speed and accuracy – didn't present him any creature comforts. Those digital voice recorders were convenient, he realized, but he hated wading through the cold text of a user's manual to figure them out. Regardless of the investment in time and the increasing ache to his muscles with each passing year, there was just something about the feel of an ink pen – held in his hand – pressing to paper that provided a stronger foundation to human existence. It felt far more 'natural,' was the only way he had been able to describe it to colleagues. Of course, it slowed him down in ways that produced some frustration, but – as a considerable plus – it gave him time to further examination the various intricacies of any given equation he was considering at the time. With all things, there are compromises, and Mentnor had long ago accepted that continuing to use pen and pencil – when in private – would serve as a reasonable anchor to against the storm of complexities he battled each and every day.  
  
Talmadge had given him a puzzle of sorts – to calculate the odds that Frank Parker's latest dimension-hopping conundrum was the other end of the parallelogram they discussed – and, pen in hand, he was sketching out several plausible statistics, considerable measures to take, and specific tasks to consider ... when the door suddenly swung wide, and the director appeared in the open frame.  
  
"Isaac, we have a development."  
  
The man looked up from the desk. A mischievous twinkle in his eye, he asked, "I hope you're not going to tell me that yet another Frank Parker just called in a conundrum?"  
  
The director paused to smile. "No," he answered. As an afterthought, he added, "If it were only that simple."  
  
"Simple?"  
  
"As you can imagine, Washington is all abuzz with the return of Frank Parker, and I think they've made a decision that tops that ante of yours." Sounding official, he said, "Collect your things. We're on the move."  
  
*****  
  
"You must be kidding!" Mentnor exclaimed.  
  
Behind the wheel of one of the facilities interior vehicle, Talmadge shook his head. "I wish I were, Isaac. As a matter of fact, I wish that the both of us could wake up to learn everything we've learned in the last several hours was all some kind of collectively-influenced dream, but, unless you pinch me, something tells me this day is only going to get far worse before it gets better."  
  
Despite the vertigo it produced, Mentnor continued to scribble several checklists – new ones he'd have to tabulate into his already complex temporal equations. "Bradley, doesn't the NSA know what risk we'd be taking ... by letting Frank out?"  
  
Slowing down their cart, the director yanked the wheel hard, turning a quick corner and barely missing the wall.  
  
"If what you're hinting is that every member of the Committee has lost his mind, then I'd have to agree with you," he replied. "I can't say that I blame them, but Larnord has spoken. When the temporal overlord who's blessed your country with the gift of time travel speaks, I guess no one has the cajones to challenge his judgment."  
  
"This is lunacy!" Mentnor proclaimed.  
  
"Sure, it is," Talmadge assured his friend, "but look at it from the alien's perspective: we developed our own Sphere, and our chrononaut crashed it into a terrorist's jetliner, sacrificing not only his life but also possibly the tool to salvation of our planet! How much sense does that make?"  
  
"But why not simply have Larnord flown here?" Mentnor asked. "He's traveled before! Bradley, he's flown countless light years through space in order to accept his assignment on Earth! Certainly, a plane flight of over a thousand miles shouldn't make his air sick?"  
  
Slowly, Talmadge pulled the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive steel door with an open port within the top half.  
  
"It's out of my hands, Isaac."  
  
"But, Bradley ..."  
  
"I said it's out of my hands," he repeated firmly. "Keep this to yourself until I say otherwise. I don't want anyone leaking a word about this release until it's absolutely necessary."  
  
"I doubt any of them would support this, Bradley."  
  
The director frowned. "It's not their support I'm worried about, Isaac." He unclipped his safety belt and hopped to the solid ground. "What I am worried about is how far any of them would go to see Frank's release stopped."  
  
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You're not ... you're not talking about sabotage?"  
  
Immediately, Talmadge shook his head. "No, no. We're all patriots. We've been through life-and-death scenarios together. In the history of science, I don't think there's been a stronger team than the one assigned to BackStep today." He paused for a moment, his eyes searching as he tried to find the precise words to explain his concern. "What I'm talking about has far more to do with the morale of the mission. If what you've hypothesized is correct – if we're weighing the survival of Frank's world and our own – then I need everyone concentrating on safely resolving this conundrum. I need their commitment, and I need the best they have to offer ... now more than ever before. I don't need egos getting in the way ... especially where Channing is concerned."  
  
Slowly, Isaac realized, and he nodded. "He is your ranking chrononaut."  
  
"He is," Talmadge affirmed.  
  
"He isn't going to like this."  
  
"No, he isn't." The director shrugged. "Rightfully, he's going to expect to serve as the operational commander for this mission. Given the fact that we've never replaced Craig – all of us just assumed he'd eventually come back to the program after a leave of absence – Channing has been our greatest asset. He has served this country in more ways than you or I ever could have. Can you imagine how he's going to feel when he gets word that Larnord has, in essence, put him on the bench?"  
  
"It wasn't your call, Bradley."  
  
"He's going to blame someone, Isaac."  
  
Offering an alternative, the scientist said, "Why not have Channing serve as commander? You can have Frank sent along with the team as an 'operational consultant'?"  
  
The director pointed at the ground. "This is Larnord we're talking about," he replied. "He made his opinion perfectly clear. As it is, the Overseer speaks in riddles and puzzles. I've never been able to make perfect sense out of anything he's ordered me to do, and putting our entire civilization at risk to exposure of temporal contamination is pushing envelopes I never realized existed. But on this point? I understood him perfectly. 'Frank Parker must come to Washington, and Frank Parker must be in command.' Those were his exact words." He shook his head. "I have no other choice."  
  
"Then make a stand."  
  
"And lose my authority?" Talmadge glanced around the corridor, thankful that the two of them were alone. "There are some gambles even I refuse, Isaac. You know it as well as I do. BackStep is history. We're not living it. We're making it every time anyone takes the chair in that Sphere and travels back seven days. We're participating in the revision of events for the betterment of mankind." He swallowed his pride. "There is no way I can risk having Larnord directing the Committee to bench me ... not at a time like this."  
  
"What about Channing?"  
  
The director sighed. "He'll get used to it."  
  
"Do you think so?"  
  
"He'd better," Talmadge said, "or his tenure as chrononaut might be over."  
  
Together, the two of them left the vehicle and approached the door. A white-suited brunette appeared in the portal, and she smiled promptly when she saw who had arrived.  
  
"Good afternoon, director," she said.  
  
"Hello, Jenny."  
  
"Dr. Mentnor!" Reaching out, she laid her hand over Isaac's. "It's good to see you back with the program."  
  
"Thank you, Jenny."  
  
Expectantly, she focused her attention on the director. "We don't get many visitors down here, sir. I hear things are busy upstairs today. Anything we should know about down here in Supply?"  
  
"Nothing I have clearance to discuss at this point," Talmadge assured her, "but, when the time is right, everyone will be brought up to speed."  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
"In the meantime, I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"  
  
The two men watched as the supply technician's jaw dropped wide. They heard her gasp, and they could only imagine what she was thinking.  
  
"Sir, did you say ...?"  
  
"That's right, Jenny," the director interrupted. "You heard me. I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"  
  
Collecting her wits, she piped, "Right away!" and disappeared down the hallway behind. Talmadge and Mentnor glanced at one another, smiling to themselves, and, when she returned with the silver parcel – a 30 inch by 30 inch sealed aluminum container emblazoned with the BackStep insignia on its top – they greeted her warmly.  
  
"Thank you, Jenny."  
  
"My pleasure, sir."  
  
They started back toward the vehicle. Before Talmadge could turn the ignition, he heard the young lady ask, "We'll all be brought up to speed soon, director?"  
  
He flashed her a guarded grin. "Go back to work, Jenny."  
  
End of Chapter 38 


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39  
  
Six Days, Three Hours, Six Minutes  
  
Hunched over her laptop, Lisa plunked away quickly and happily at the black keys, surfing and extracting the information appearing in front of her at an amazing speed. She watched the cascading images of information about everything that DeMarco had asked for, had demanded.  
  
"Well, well, well, Rick, I'm sorry to say that there isn't much in cyberspace that's going to make you happy," she finally admitted, "unless you're looking for pornography ... but something tells me you're not the type who needs to cherish his women in the digital domain."  
  
Ignoring her obvious romantic advance, he replied, "Explain, if you please: what do you mean by 'not much'?"  
  
"Darlington Industries," she said. "I'm pulling up absolutely zero here, Rick. Don't get me wrong about the value of the Information Superhighway. Cyberspace is pure juicy. Normally, it's full of bits and pieces and fragments and files of information, but I'm coming up completely dry on Darlington Industries."  
  
"How is that possible?"  
  
"It's very possible ... if it doesn't exist."  
  
Standing behind her, he stared down at the colorful screen. "What does that mean, Lisa?"  
  
The young woman shrugged. "It could mean any number of things to any number of people," she explained, "but it only means one thing to little ole me." She keyed up another search on Google, trying several variations to the spelling of the word 'Darlington,' but she only met dead ends. "Rather than give you my personal opinion, let me lay out a few variables for you ... and then I'll tell you what I think." Again, she tried another spelling on the name, but, still, she found nothing. "Darlington could be listed under a different name for security purposes. What with the state of the world today – terrorism, industrial espionage, and all – the name could be nothing more than a ruse. Or, depending on how wild you like your imagination to be, Darlington could be nothing more than a subsidiary of a much larger animal, leaving its existence known only to those very few people who do business with it. Or, if you're willing to accept the most extreme set of possibilities, Darlington could be little more than a front."  
  
"A front?"  
  
"Yes," she said, slowly turning around in her chair to stare up at the intoxicating foreigner. As she whirled, she smiled sexily, and she trusted that he felt the same chemical attraction – the same animal desire – that was warming her stomach. "Darlington could be the name of a covert government operation, something that isn't – in fact – a business but rather an operation."  
  
"Might I guess that that is your personal opinion?"  
  
"It isn't only my personal opinion," she teased, studying the depth of his eyes, "it's my professional one." She smiled. "You've been stood up, Rick ... but that doesn't mean you have to miss the prom."  
  
Staring down at the younger woman, he studied her hungry eyes. There was no doubt: she was coming on to him sexually, but DeMarco knew that he couldn't violate Matthew's trust ... yet. He couldn't compromise the situation, the friendships he had worked so hard and so long to cultivate, to put him in the unique position to extract his revenge on those less deserving. Matthew was a necessary component to a larger plan, and losing control of those pieces – at the cost of exploring forbidden lust – would force DeMarco into losing sight of the entire puzzle. Still, when she smiled at him, he couldn't help but enjoy an immeasurable surge of pure sexual energy. He wanted her, despite his best instincts. She wanted him, despite strict instructions from her brother.  
  
Could DeMarco control himself?  
  
Was ignoring the pleasures of her American flesh worth the sacrifice?  
  
Forcing the thoughts of sin from his mind, he asked, "Tell me more about what you think, Lisa."  
  
"About Darlington," she tried, "or about us?"  
  
"Darlington," he answered. "For now."  
  
She bit her lower lip. "That isn't much of a challenge, Rick, and, in case you've missed it, I enjoy challenges." Blinking, she grew serious. "Let's take a moment to forget what we don't know, and let's take a good look at what we do." She held up a finger. "Darlington Industries has no listing to do business in the United States so far as we've been able to determine through publicly accessible web sites that would normally catalogue every company, corporation, or other business entity." She raised a second finger. "So far as you've been able to explain, Darlington Industries operates out of the subterranean levels of a Washington hotel that caters to very exclusive clientele. That's not exactly a high profile location. As a matter of fact, it begs of secrecy. Of course, space is at a premium in the nation's capital, and I would be hard-pressed – despite investing the time in another domain search – to locate a building in the greater D.C. area willing to surrender more than a single level of business space to what I would presume to be a fictitious company." Still, she showed another finger. "This senator of yours – Pendley – appears to maintain some kind of open affiliation to Darlington Industries. From what you've said, Pendley serves on Senate committees devoted to intelligence. Also, you said he maintains some active relationships with high-ranking personnel within the National Security Agency ... an organization not to be taken lightly." Finished, she lowered her hand not to her own lap but, instead, gripped it to DeMarco's thigh. "Do the math. I think it's very clear that what you're dealing with is not an organization sanctioned to do business within the borders of the United States."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So they're obviously a front."  
  
"For?"  
  
She shook her head. "Unless a bluebird comes and whispers it in your ear, there's just no way to know," she explained. "My guess would be government. Given their location, it would make perfect sense. As my daddy used to say, you don't run the plumbing to the bathroom for nothing." She shrugged, squeezing her grip on his leg a bit tighter. "Assuming you've told me everything that you do know – which is very little, Rick – we'd best start looking for one willing stool pidgeon"  
  
He crossed his arms. "Speculate."  
  
"Speculate?" she asked. "Rick, that's all I've been doing ... or has your mind been on something else?"  
  
To his surprise, she tightened her grip on his thigh even more.  
  
Smiling back at her, he reached down and pried her hand loose.  
  
"Don't be that way, sweetheart," she warned.  
  
"I have given my word to your brother."  
  
"Matthew isn't my father."  
  
"He is my friend. I trust him. I think you should, too."  
  
"Matthew doesn't watch over me twenty-four hours a day."  
  
"Lisa, a man's word – my word – is all I have to share."  
  
"I'd be willing to wager that – if you entertain the idea long enough – you can think of something else you might have to share."  
  
He chuckled. "You, my young lady, are a very naughty girl."  
  
Mocking, she placed a hand on her chest. "My good sir, I was raised to be a cultured Southern lady. I take offense to your insinuation."  
  
"I believe you do."  
  
The curtain behind them rustled, and Matthew entered the antechamber. He walked over to where they were, pointing at the laptop.  
  
"What do you have, little sister?"  
  
Twirling her chair back to the monitor, she explained, "I have enough information to starve a thimble, big brother."  
  
"Is that so?" Reaching up, he patted DeMarco firmly on the shoulder. "That's not going to keep our friend happy for very long ... and Rick is not a patient man."  
  
"I've been patient for far too long, Matthew," the man agreed.  
  
"What can we do?" the Southerner asked. "You give the word, Rick. We're here to do whatever it is you need ... and you know how far I'm willing to go to keep you happy. You're like family to me, and I won't have you come to our town only to leave disappointed."  
  
DeMarco glanced over Lisa's shoulder down at the computer screen. In silence, she was conducting another search through a government database, but, from where he stood, he could see that she was growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of substantial information.  
  
"Matthew, we will do what men of our background do when we're hungry for sport," he said. "We will go hunting."  
  
End of Chapter 39 


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40  
  
Six Days, Two Hours, Fifty-Five Minutes  
  
The telephone rang loudly, startling Donovan from his reading of the security briefings. Reaching across the stacks and stacks of piled paperwork, he found the receiver, lifted it, and placed it to his ear.  
  
Immediately, Marty said, "Tell me that you're near a computer terminal."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Donovan replied. "You're talking to a representative of the United States government. Computer terminals are standard issue around here. In fact, there's a computer terminal in any direction I look." Brushing aside the largest pile of reports, he shifted in his office chair, pulled the keyboard out on its slide, and keyed open his directory. "Please tell me that you're not going to send me another batch of naked photos of that thing you call your 'wife.'"  
  
"You know, Donovan ... as a taxpayer, I'm paying your salary. You could give me a little respect, couldn't you? So far as I know, you sit there all day being a funny guy," he heard. "As if that's what this world needs? Another comedian? Does your Uncle Sam pay you extra for that, eh?"  
  
He laughed. "Not in this lifetime."  
  
"Open up your email cache," Marty ordered. "As we speak, I'm uploading a video file. You have to see this to believe it."  
  
"A video file?" He smiled. "So you've graduated from still photography to motion pictures? You devil! Well, I guess if it keeps the missus happy, then who are you really hurting?"  
  
"Like I said ... real funny guy, Donovan."  
  
"You know me, Marty. I'm just passing the time."  
  
Donovan clicked on his email icon, and the screen morphed to his electronic inbox. Like his desk, the folder was overflowing with messages: local security alerts, upcoming conference meeting reminders, an itinerary for a field service training program he had registered for in hand-to-hand combat. He dragged the search bar to the top of the screen, scrolling upward to the newer messages.  
  
There it was, clearly indicated – with the video attachment – sent by Detective Martin Guerrero.  
  
"What is this?" Donovan asked.  
  
"It's footage from this morning's suspected arson you called about," Marty explained.  
  
"The storage facility?"  
  
"That's it."  
  
The agent clicked on the email and opened the file. After a quick second for the CPU to read the file type, Donovan watched as the smaller television screen opened, granting him the view – from above – of a long stretch of garage doors, facing one another, in the pale morning light.  
  
"What am I looking at, Marty?"  
  
"You're seeing Aisle K at Essential Capital Storage," the detective stated. "Now, there are multiple cameras throughout this complex, but this is the primary camera for the aisle. It's fixed at the end so that anyone monitoring the aisle can get a bird's eye view of the entire aisle. It's a low-end piece of crap, so don't expect any zoom or tilt features. The owner didn't exactly break the bank putting these cameras in, if you know what I mean. He went for bottom drawer stuff. But, from what I've been able to recover, this is the best angle of this fellow. There's other footage available ... if you want it. Give the word. But this angle is the best. You can see his face. Watch him closely, Craig, and tell me what you think."  
  
On the screen, a man dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt suddenly appeared from the bottom – from beneath the camera.  
  
"Did this guy hop a fence, Marty?"  
  
"As best as we can tell," the detective replied. "The place wasn't open for business yet, but the direction he came from would indicate that he climbed a cinderblock brick wall on the south end of the place ... assuming, of course, that he didn't spend the night in one of the lockers."  
  
The mysterious man walked slowly up the aisle. He stopped, slowly raising his arms out to his sides, and he kept walking. Slowly, he turned around, and, finding the camera to his rear, he glanced up directly into the lens. Quickly, Donovan grabbed his mouse and clicked 'pause.' As the detective had indicated, the mystery man offered a clear view of his face, almost daring the camera to keep recording.  
  
"What the hell is this?" Donovan muttered. "Marty, do we know who this guy is?"  
  
"Sorry, Craig, but that's where you come in," Marty snapped. "I've run a freeze frame of his mug through the DC database, and I came up empty. All that tells me is that he isn't local. Most probably, he isn't a citizen of the United States."  
  
"How do you figure?"  
  
"It's what you call a hunch," he said. "Where I hang my hat, hunches and a loaded weapon account for a honest day's police work. But you? Yours is a candy store with plenty of flavors. I would imagine you have point-and- click access to far greater profiles than I do. CIA international. INTERPOL. MI-6. The works. If this guy is a major player, then he's going to fall somewhere on your radar, not mine."  
  
"Did he start the fire?" Donovan asked.  
  
"At this point, that's our working assumption," Marty answered. "We have footage of him entering the container where we now believe the fire began. There weren't any cameras close enough to capture any images of what he did inside, but, as the fire started there, our mystery man clearly had something to do with it. We also have footage of him leaving, but he wasn't in any real hurry."  
  
"He didn't need to be," Donovan mused aloud. "You called it, Marty. Our mystery man is a pro. If he started the fire, then he knew exactly how much time he had to get far enough away before the smoke let loose." He brought his hand up to his chin and rubbed as he thought the scenario through. "What doesn't make any sense is the video. It's like he's performing, you know? He's acting. Taking what was recorded only at face value, this guy wanted to get our attention ... at least, on camera he did."  
  
"Well, he has not only my attention but also the undivided attention of the entire Washington D.C. Police Department, Craig," Marty responded. "The only thing I need to know is who he is. I'm hoping you can help me out with that."  
  
Leaning close, Donovan studied the man's eyes. Despite their small size on his screen, he could tell that they were filled with purpose, with desire, with ...  
  
Vengeance?  
  
"Once I have an identity," he said, "you'll get the call, Marty."  
  
"Don't shank me on this, Craig."  
  
"No way, Marty," Donovan promised. "If this guy went to so much work to capture our attention, then I say we give it to him."  
  
End of Chapter 40 


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41  
  
Six Days, Two Hours, Forty-One Minutes  
  
Director Bradley Talmadge found Frank Parker lying on his bed, his feet propped up on the pillow while his arms were folded behind his head. "I hope you've had some rest," the man chimed, his hands tucked neatly in the pockets of his dress slacks. "From the way things are developing, I have the feeling that you're going to need it."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Parker tried, lifting his head from the cot.  
  
"What do you mean, Frank?"  
  
Shifting, the younger man sat up on the cot, his feet firmly planted on the floor. "From what I hear, I won't be seeing the light of day anytime soon."  
  
"Where did you hear that?"  
  
"That new chrononaut of yours," Parker answered. "Let me tell you: that's one sparkling personality I'm not in any hurry to meet again."  
  
Narrowing his eyes, the director jerked his head to the side in an expression of surprise. "Channing came down here?"  
  
Rising from the bed, Parker sighed. "Not too long ago," he said. "He's none too happy with my being here, Bradley."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"That man has more than a drawer full of issues."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Parker crossed his arms defiantly. "Maybe you should tell me, Bradley."  
  
The director pulled one hand out from his trousers and scratched the back of his head. Grimacing, he tried, "Times have changed, Frank. The world ... our world ... it's a far different place from the one you inhabit. We have different priorities and different restrictions. Vastly different protocols. Honestly, if you thought conducting a BackStep in your continuum was difficult, you can't begin to imagine what we go through with each and every mission." He paused, studying the younger man's stoic expression. "When you arrived ... you have to understand that, given the circumstances, I had to be absolutely certain that you were who you said you were ... well, I suppose, at the point, that some things ... let's just say that a discussion of certain relationships didn't seem prudent at the time."  
  
"Relationships?" Parker gasped. "Hell, if it were only that simple! Your current time-traveling cowboy called me a time-traveling cowboy! How's that for the pot calling the kettle black?"  
  
"Frank, despite the job, you have to trust me when I say that you're two entirely different men," Talmadge said honestly. "I won't deny that the two of you share some similarities in the way that you work. To Channing's defense, he treats BackStepping with a far greater degree of pragmatism than you did." Immediately, he held up his hand to staunch any arguments. "Now, I know what you're thinking, so let me say – for the record – that I'm taking anyone's side. I'm not saying that Channing's approach is any better than yours. I'm only trying to make you understand that he's – shall we say – more enlightened diplomatically in the manner with which he accomplishes his missions. As a result, the NSA Committee tends to grant him far more slack than they ever did you."  
  
Smirking, Parker laughed. "Bradley, in the eyes of the NSA, I'm a field operative. I didn't mean any more to them than any other agent. When did any of us in the field – you included – ever really give a damn what those Washington pencil-pushers thought? For the matter, when did you personally ever give a damn what the Committee said?"  
  
"Take it easy, Frank," he tried cautiously. "I am not your enemy. As I said, I'm only trying to point out that, in your absence, the members of the Committee have grown used to Channing's way of dealing with quagmires."  
  
"With what?"  
  
"With quagmires." Talmadge shrugged. "Yes, that's the Committee's new code word for a BackStep."  
  
"You've got to be kidding me!" Parker exclaimed. "You mean, they changed the code word from 'conundrum' to 'quagmire'? Bradley, that's ridiculous!"  
  
"I don't like it, either."  
  
"It doesn't even sound right!"  
  
"You know how the NSA, Frank!" Talmadge argued. "Above all else, preserve the secrecy of what we do here. After you were gone, they exercised measures to ensure that the technology and practices associated to the BackStep Program couldn't possibly be compromised. It's standard operating procedure."  
  
"But 'quagmire'?"  
  
Talmadge held up his arms in a show of surrender. "You won't get any argument out of me."  
  
"Hell, no wonder Channing doesn't like me!"  
  
Laughing, the director relaxed. "Somehow, I don't think having to use the word 'quagmire' has anything to do with liking you, Frank, but I appreciate the levity." He brought his emotions under control and continued. "It's simple, really. The Committee believed that you were dead. For the time being, BackStep was grounded. Even all of our routine operations – monitoring hotspots around the globe, weekly briefings with the President of the United States, everything – were at a complete standstill. In fact, it wasn't until Larnord revealed himself to Earth, along with the gift of a new Sphere, that we were back in business. Changes to the program were necessary. Granted, things worked fine under your tenure, too. Channing ... well, he's a different man."  
  
"I get it, Bradley," Parker snapped.  
  
"Then don't sound so stubborn."  
  
"And what do you have to say in my defense?"  
  
Talmadge grinned. "With the legendary Frank Parker? You left some mighty big shoes to fill, Frank. The way I remember things, I never knew what to expect. You were entirely unpredictable."  
  
Parker shook his head. "First, you tell me that Channing's a different man ... a man who apparently has the blessings of the Committee ... and all I get is that I was unpredictable?"  
  
"That's what made working with you such a challenge." Leaning closer to the glass, he added, "So you can stop your sulking. I'm not choosing any favorites, if that's what you're looking for."  
  
"Gee, thanks, dad."  
  
"But I will say that – somedays – I miss the chaos you brought in your wake."  
  
The chrononaut nodded. "It's good to know that you were appreciated for something."  
  
"That's why I have a surprise for you."  
  
Parker glanced up at the director. He noticed a twinkle in his eye, and he guessed that Talmadge had something up his sleeve.  
  
"This had better not be a joke, Bradley," he said. "I'm not in the mood ... not since I found out that your fondest memory of me is that I was unpredictable."  
  
"No," Talmadge agreed. "This ... this I think you're going to like." Raising his chin, the director cried out in the director of a nearby wall speaker. "Open the airlock. Mr. Parker is getting a visitor."  
  
End of Chapter 41 


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42  
  
Six Days, Two Hours, Twenty-Four Minutes  
  
*** At the same time ***  
  
It was easy, Donovan thought.  
  
Technology never ceased to amaze him. It could keep a dying man alive. It could target a missile fired from hundreds of miles away to the precision of finding a needle in a haystack. It could launch satellites into space, and those satellites could take pictures of the head of Chinese intelligence, pictures so precise one could count the number of ice cubes in his glass of afternoon tea. Of course, knowing that the United States had and used the technology to send a man back in time perhaps gave Donovan an excuse to 'be surprised,' but he rarely was.  
  
The screen capture Marty Guerrero provided from Essential Capital Storage wasn't perfect: part of the suspect's image – the left side of his head – was blurred, but Donovan ran the file through a pixel reconstruction program. It cleaned up nicely enough for him to get an excellence black- and-white photograph off his printer. Next, he accessed the International Criminal Recognition Database – a prototype software designed by the NSA – and uploaded the culprit's visage into the filter. He sat back in his chair, watching the hundreds upon hundreds of flickering images – faces scrolling along faster than any witness could ever plumb through a photo album of collected mug shots – scroll alongside the wanted man's picture ... and Donovan found himself pulled back to the man's eyes. They were fixed, purposeful. He knew, without a second guess, that this man – his features showed a strong hint of international background, perhaps Spanish or slight Asian – was serious about whatever he committed himself to. The dark eyes held secrets galore, an ability to see past the trappings of every day life to a purpose, to a principle, to a shockingly horrific dream. What scared Donovan the most was that he had seen such eyes before ... on his deceased friend, Frank Parker ... and that probably meant the usual.  
  
These two men were on a collision course with destiny.  
  
The computer chirped, and Donovan woke from his trance. He tapped the 'enter' key and glanced at the screen. The ICRD found a match. With the mouse, he pointed at the file and clicked. The screen blanked for a moment, and then a blue background with a wealth of black text appeared on the screen.  
  
"Richard DeMarco," Donovan read.  
  
He had heard the name before, though it had been some time back.  
  
What was it?  
  
There had been some operation, a secret incursion into a foreign land – was it Syria? A troop of Navy SEALs had gone in under the cover of night to rescue the kidnapped daughter of a man conducting intelligence reviews with the Syrian government – Donovan realized it was coming back to him very quickly – and they had come under some heavy gunfire. From what he recalled, there were no American casualties. The young woman – the one who had been held captive for eighteen days – had been rescued, and the loss of life was on the side of the abductors.  
  
What was it?  
  
He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and surrendered to the process of thought. He tried to remember the name of the mission. The mission would not be mentioned openly in the NSA files. It was highly classified ... but Donovan remembered discussing it with a senator at a Washington fundraiser. 'Leave it to a senator to open his mouth at a fundraiser,' he thought to himself ... but it was there – the nameless operation had a moniker – buried somewhere deep in the recesses of his memory.  
  
Operation ... something?  
  
DeMarco was there – he was a friend, a confidante, someone apparently visiting the Syrian abductors and inadvertently caught in the firefight that ensued. From what Donovan recalled, intelligence reports had placed DeMarco – not one of the abductors but rather a friend to one of the commandos – at the hot spot. Reports indicated that, when the gunfire broke out, he picked up a weapon – would he really have had any other choice? – and traded shots with the Americans. It was believed – reported, actually – that he had been wounded in the skirmish, but it was believed that he had survived, escaping toward the servants' area of the raided compound.  
  
Operation ... something?  
  
DeMarco had fallen on NSA reports before. In 1991, he had been captured selling illegal arms in the Ukraine, helping to fund a resistance to the blossoming central Soviet government, hoping for a return to the days of old when communism ruled much of the Eastern continent. He escaped sentencing and disappeared for a short while, but he resurfaced in 1993, engaged in guerilla fighting in the streets of Iran. However, his history found favor with the leading regime at the time, and he was quickly released so long as he agreed to leave the country. In 1994, DeMarco had been linked to the bombing of several embassies through Africa. His efforts confused the authorities as he seemed to be acting of his own accord and not in collaboration with any group or cause. In 1997, he escaped capture – his friends weren't so lucky – when a group was uncovered plotting the assassination of the British Prime Minister. From what Donovan read, there were many, many more reports of his involvement in terrorist activities – several of which could not be substantiated – but, regardless, Richard DeMarco was not a man to be taken lightly.  
  
He was a wanted fugitive to several countries around the world, but, through appearances, it didn't look as if he was on the United States' listing of 'most wanted.' Much of what DeMarco indicated that he was extremely dangerous, but he had never attacked American interests ... and that probably kept him low on the pole of terrorists to watch.  
  
What was he doing here?  
  
Donovan closed his eyes again, trying desperately to remember the name of the covert mission. For some reason – an intuitive inkling – he trusted that the name posed some significance to someone ... he only wasn't sure to whom it would matter.  
  
Operation ...?  
  
Operation ...?  
  
"Quagmire," he said.  
  
End of Chapter 42 


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43  
  
Six Days, Two Hours, Thirty-Four Minutes  
  
"Ebdon!"  
  
Striding unevenly in his dark grey bathroom and matching slippers, a smiling Ebdon Finkle walked through the opened airlock at the rear of Frank Parker's isolation chamber. His steps were purposeful and pronounced. He looked like a man who had seen the ravages of one's darkest hours – a firmly set brow under a greasy, sweat-lined forehead, the shallowness and reddening in the crevasses beneath and around the eyes, the drooped shoulders of ache and fatigue. His body had been severely wracked by some recent and terrible malady. But his eyes were twinkling, and the man approached without hesitation.  
  
"Hello, Frank," the man said. His voice held no hint of resentment or bitterness but rather a healthy presence of human warmth.  
  
Immediately, Parker glanced toward Talmadge ...  
  
... who smiled with pure delight?  
  
"Wait a minute!" the chrononaut tried, holding up his hands, commanding the man to halt in his tracks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Ebdon, don't take this personal, but I need you to stop right where you are and stay there!"  
  
"What did I do?"  
  
"Don't come near me!" Parker demanded. "Don't come any closer! You shouldn't even be in here! There's a danger of ... there's the possibility of ... Bradley, help me out here! Can I talk about this? Does he have clearance?"  
  
Keeping his smile, the director answered, "The man stood at Death's Door for you, Frank. I think he's allowed a bit of an explanation."  
  
Quickly, Parker locked eyes with the robed man. "Ebdon, I don't know what they've told you, but there's a chance that I could contaminate you ..."  
  
"Not any more, there isn't," Talmadge interrupted.  
  
Uncertain as of what to do next, Parker stepped back. Should he run to the far side of an already small room? Should he pull the blanket from the bed and wrap himself under it for security? Should he hold his breath? He didn't want to endanger Finkle any longer. He didn't want to endanger anyone. He refused the risk. He couldn't do it.  
  
"Bradley!" he shouted. "Is this some ... some sick joke? What the hell is going on here?"  
  
"Oh, pipe down, son! You'll get yourself all knotted up inside!" Ebdon exclaimed, continued to step further into the sanitized chamber. "And stop worrying about doing me any harm. I won't hear another word of it. I've been close to dying in my life before – maybe never so close as I was an hour ago, thanks to you – but I beat the bug, Frank, and I beat it good."  
  
Parker studied the man's triumphant expression. Could it have happened? Could everything Bradley and Mentnor and even Channing had told him been a lie? No. No one – in this world or any other – would be that cruel. The chrononaut refused to believe he'd be subject to that disturbing torture.  
  
"How?"  
  
"How what?"  
  
"How can you be here, Ebdon? How can you be standing in here?"  
  
He shrugged, and, for a brief moment, Parker thought the wise man looked like a small child. "They gave me a shot."  
  
"A shot?"  
  
"Some kind of vaccine," Ebdon explained. "You see, at first I thought they were giving me something to lessen the pain, you know? To ease my passing. But I'll be the tail end of a hound dog if the needle prick didn't end up doing the trick, Frank." Still grinning, the old man hopped in place one time, stamping his feet hard to the metal floor. "I'm fit as a fiddle, albeit an old one. An heirloom, you might say." He waved toward the director. "The doctors were going to tell you about it. Stubborn as I am, I insisted that I get the chance to be the first one to let you know. I wanted to see your face when you got the news. I may not read people the right way, but I had a feeling about you, Frank Parker, from the moment you trotted up to the porch of my restaurant." He leveled a slightly trembling finger at him. "You're good people. You didn't mean me – or any of my family or any of the people in my restaurant – any harm. I knew it, and I personally wanted you to know that I knew." He shrugged. "I guess I could tell that by the way you handled yourself when those soldiers showed up." Grimacing, he added, "Boy, those greenines sure made a mess of things."  
  
"Greenies?" Parker asked.  
  
"Yes, greenies," the man replied. "It's what we called the infantry in my day ... back in World War II. I was a greenie, though, back then, folks preferred to call me a 'darkie.'" He shook his head. "I never much cared for that, but times have changed, thank the Lord, but those greenies sure made their presence known at the restaurant." He snorted. "Hell, I'll be cleaning the entire place for weeks!"  
  
Incredulous, Parker turned to the glass wall. "Bradley, please tell me that this is not a dream?"  
  
"It's experimental vaccination, Frank," the director said. "Really, it's more of an antidote. Once a person has been exposed to temporal contamination, Chroniticin can be administered with the hope that it'll stabilize the host's metabolism until such a point that the immune system can produce enough white blood cells ... well, to be perfectly honest, I never was a chemist, so let's just say that – for now – it works. The CDC has been working on it – in conjunction with the efforts of our top medical personnel – for quite some time." Pointing at the old man, he said, "Mr. Finkle is our first successful test case."  
  
"A vaccine?" the chrononaut asked. "But ... how is that possible?"  
  
"You're looking at it," Talmadge replied, smiling. "Keep in mind that the vaccination is in extremely limited supply, Frank. It isn't as if we've had a wealth of opportunities to test the serum, but I think you'll agree that Mr. Finkle is living proof that, at least initially, we should all be very pleased with the results."  
  
Numbly, Parker turned and walked over to the old man. Reaching out, he took his hand and grasped it firmly. "Ebdon," he began, his heart beating in his mouth, "I am so sorry for what could have happened to you."  
  
"Son, you're wasting time on an apology that isn't necessary."  
  
"Yes, it is," Frank insisted. He knew that the man's graciousness wouldn't allow for a full-blown apology, but he had to say it, if only for his own conscience. "Ebdon, I was ... careless." He didn't want to divulge too much about the BackStep Program, knowing full well that to do so would put the elderly man at even greater risk. "I didn't know that I was infected – that I could infect you – that I was contagious with anything – and I am so sorry for what could've been a terrible accident."  
  
Lowering his head, Ebdon said, "Nothing terrible happened." He shrugged. "Besides, maybe you did me some good. My business will probably go through the roof now that the customers have something more to gossip about other than the food." He smiled and shook his head. "I'm alive, and I couldn't be happier to see you in great shape, too."  
  
Parker couldn't believe what he was hearing. Throughout his leaps back in time, he had encountered the vicious. He had engaged the deadly. He had even resisting the tempestuous. Here was a man – a truly forgiving soul.  
  
Weakly, he tried, "I don't know what to say, Ebdon."  
  
The old man nodded. "Well, this young doctor friend of yours told me that you were the person who stopped that airliner from crashing into the World Trade Center back on September 11th," he explained. "So, the way I see things, there are an awful lot of folks who owe you a more than a small debt of their gratitude, son." Gripping his fingers more tightly around Frank's palm, he added, "I have to say that it does me proud to shake the hand of a patriot like you."  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
He had remained so focused on Ebdon and Talmadge that he had failed to see the CDC-suited figure – a familiar silhouette – that had walked through the airlock behind the old man. She moved gracefully, even under all of the protective layers and despite the clumsy headgear, but Frank Parker recognized the dark, sensuous, caring eyes when they met.  
  
"Olga," was all he could say.  
  
"Hello, Frank," was all she could reply.  
  
He smiled at her, trusting that – by the tone of her voice, the glimmer in her eyes – she felt something inside that neither of them ever had to put into words. It was attraction. It was anger. It was delight. It was frustration. It was a whole gamut of emotions – the entire spectrum of human possibility – but her professionalism and his antagonism always kept them from calling it what it probably, arguably, and inevitably was:  
  
Love.  
  
Still grinning, he offered, "I thought you were going to call me 'Mr. Parker.'"  
  
Smiling back at him, she nodded her head. "There will be plenty of time for that later."  
  
Stepping forward, they hugged one another. Parker's heart swelled at the sensation that rose quickly in him. Damn this temporal contamination! He wanted so badly to feel the brush of her skin against his, to rustle his fingers in her luscious auburn hair, to feel the tickle of her breath on his neck, but the suit prevented the two of them from making any physical contact. He had been locked in the isolation chamber only for a matter of hours, but, deprived as he was, he longed for real contact, and he knew how much a touch – any touch – with Olga would've made him feel so much better. Still, he felt as she willingly sank into his arms for a brief moment – pressing all of herself against him – before growing taut, stowing her emotions, and pulling away.  
  
"It's good to see you ... again," she said, as they parted.  
  
"I can't tell you ..." he tried, but then he stopped. He didn't know if this Olga – the one from this timeline – remotely felt the same for him as the Olga he knew – the one from his own timeline. Wouldn't she? Shouldn't she? He convinced himself – based on their momentary embrace – that she did. "I don't have the words. I never did. It's an entirely different timeline, and I don't know who's around and who isn't."  
  
"You're here, and that's all that matters ... for now."  
  
He studied her expression.  
  
'She definitely feels something for me,' he thought.  
  
"I know that today isn't your birthday, Mr. Parker, but, at Bradley's advice, I brought you a present," she explained.  
  
On the floor behind her sat the silver case marked with the logo of the BackStep Program. Parker glanced down at it, noticing that the seals had been snapped away and the emergency panels cracked.  
  
"Olga," he muttered, trying to embarrass her. "You shouldn't have ... but you had to go and open it, didn't you? You've spoiled the surprise! Half the fun in getting a present is tearing off the wrapping!"  
  
Sounding like a nervous child, she giggled, and Ebdon Finkle laughed at her.  
  
"I get the impression that the two of you know one another," he said.  
  
Looking over at the old man, Parker winked. "How can you tell?"  
  
"Call it an old man's intuition."  
  
"I can live with that," he answered. Gesturing at the case, he called out to the director, "Hey, Bradley! What's in the box?"  
  
The director tapped on the glass.  
  
"If I'm going to let you out of your cage in order to play with the other children, I'll have to insist that you dress for the part, Frank." Talmadge nodded at Ebdon and Olga. "You, two. Back in the airlock. The man needs his privacy. He has a suit to try on." With a proper nod, he added, "Let's all keep our fingers crossed that it fits."  
  
End of Chapter 43 


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44  
  
Six Days, Two Hours, Twelve Minutes  
  
"Talk to me, Chloe," Donovan barked at his speakerphone.  
  
"I'm listening, Craig."  
  
"That's good," he said, "but I don't want you to listen to me. I want to know what we have on Richard DeMarco that's not in the fine print."  
  
"Whatever do you mean?"  
  
"You know damn well what I mean," he challenged. "These files – even the private server ones – they're never the sum total of data on any individual. I doubt that any server has everything we know about any wanted or tracked individual, and Richard DeMarco has a background that indicates to me that the United States would have a vested interest in knowing where he is at any given moment in the man's life."  
  
He heard the rustling of some papers on the other end of the telephone. "Richard DeMarco," she finally replied. "Well, I can only assume you've read the file."  
  
"I have," he agreed, "and I'm not looking for what's available in the paperback version, Chloe. There's a rather significant gap, and that's not like us. You remember us? The good guys? We've spent the better part of the last two years looking under every rock, but DeMarco's file would have you believe that he's been vacation on Pluto. You and I know that isn't the case."  
  
"How can I help you?"  
  
"You can help by giving me the obvious. DeMarco looks like one bad dude, but it doesn't look as if he's ever posed a serious threat to any American interests. Is that your read?"  
  
"It is," she shot back quickly.  
  
"Okay, but that doesn't mean he hasn't planned on going anti-American at some point in the near future, am I right?"  
  
"There's no possible way I can know that, Craig."  
  
"Then tell me what you do know."  
  
"Well, I think the events of his disappearance bear some review."  
  
"The gap in his file?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Which means what exactly?"  
  
She cleared her throat. "Craig, my friend, we've been over this hundreds of times since you took this post with the NSA. You know I can't divulge every scrap or shred of information that the White House has placed under Executive Privilege. It isn't a matter that I don't like you. I love you to death, sweetheart, but you don't have clearance."  
  
Incredulous, he tried, "I don't have clearance?" Leaning forward, he brushed his own paperwork aside, singling out the file photograph of DeMarco he had printed from the Essential Capital Storage security feed, tacking it up on the front of his flat screen computer terminal. "Chloe, I know the truth about Roswell, for Pete's sake. How can I not have clearance for what appears – for all intents and purposes – to be a cookie- cutter terrorist?"  
  
"Richard DeMarco is far from the cookie-cutter variety."  
  
Staring into the eyes of the photographed man, Donovan asked, "You can't throw that out there and expect me to simply hang up."  
  
"Oh, yes, I can."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"It's my job."  
  
"It's your job to withhold information on subject who possibly committed arson?"  
  
"Oh, please," she snapped back at him. "If DeMarco burned Macy's to the ground, I doubt anyone in the White House would raise an eyebrow."  
  
"How can that be?"  
  
"It's a media-driven world, Craig. We who control the information, we also control the picture. When you control the picture, you control public opinion. When you control public opinion, you win elections. It's never been about fighting the right war. It's been about showing the people that the war is worth the fight. Beside, you know how the President gets about ... these things."  
  
"What things?"  
  
"These things."  
  
"And I'll ask the question again, Chloe: what things?"  
  
After a brief pause, she cleared her throat again. "Look, I can appreciate the fact that we're friends and all."  
  
"Friends?" he snapped. "Chloe, I've taken you out to dinner. We've gone to movies ... well, those that I picked. Don't get me wrong. I don't doubt that Meryl Streep is a talented actress. I just didn't want to see any of those films, but we still went to some movies."  
  
"Your film choices tended to revolve around sex and explosions, Craig," she answered. "As a matter of fact, I think we saw one film where the ones having sex exploded."  
  
Ignoring her obvious taunt, he pressed on, "Hell, I even babysat your kids when you were going steady with that fellow over at Langley ..."  
  
"Now, that was uncalled for. I wasn't going steady."  
  
"You were going steady," he argued.  
  
"Craig, I'm forty-two years old," she admitted. "At my age, there is nothing steady about it. You know how it is out there. It's dog-eat-dog, and I wouldn't wish that Langley instructor on my worst enemy. You're not scoring any points by bringing him up."  
  
"I'm not trying to score any points," he said.  
  
"Then please explain what it is you're hoping to accomplish by bringing up these awful memories."  
  
He sighed. "Look. You're in the White House. You work for the President's Chief of Staff. I know that – in your position – you hear things. I know – for a fact – that you've been in attendance at several of the International Threat Matrix briefings."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"You told me, you bottle blond."  
  
"That's not scoring points either, Craig."  
  
"You hear things," he repeated. "You've obviously heard something about Richard DeMarco. As I said, anyone of us over here at the NSA can read his file and see that he's not exactly a small player on the international terrorists' scene, but his activities have not been directed against American interests."  
  
"That's a solid analysis," she admitted.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "Thank you."  
  
"No, no," she tried, speaking more loudly through the speakerphone. "That's a really solid analysis, Craig. That's solid desk work. I should make a telephone call and have you pulled out of field ops. Hell, at the very least, it would save me a good babysitter."  
  
"Okay, that's enough of that."  
  
"No," she argued. "I'm being sincere. Craig Donovan, you should be doing the work of an analyst, if this is the kind of thinking you're capable of."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Walk it through."  
  
He narrowed his eyes, still studying DeMarco's face.  
  
"Walk it through, Craig," she said again. "I'm listening."  
  
"He hasn't acted against American interests," Donovan said slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "and that means he has no reason to act against them?"  
  
"I take back everything I said. Stay in the field, Craig."  
  
"You're saying ... I'm getting colder."  
  
"I'm saying you should keep your resume current."  
  
He grimaced. "Ouch. That was cold."  
  
"Then warm me up."  
  
Shifting in his chair, he reclined a bit, stretching his feet out under the desk. Tilting his head, he considered DeMarco from a slightly different angle, and he tried, "He hasn't acted against American interests because ... because he's been ordered not to?"  
  
"Well, Craig," she replied, "that's a mighty interesting theory. Everyone knows that terrorists – wherever they're anointed in the food chain – all respond to a commander. It's the cornerstone of every terrorist group we're watching – those stateside and around the globe."  
  
His ears perked up. "Stateside?"  
  
"Yes. That's what I said."  
  
He thought he saw the two dimensional DeMarco wink.  
  
"Chloe, are you saying that this man ... are you saying that Richard DeMarco is receiving his orders from a terrorist organization located here within the United States?"  
  
"I'm not saying anything, Craig," she insisted. "To do so would be a punishable violation of several oaths of secrecy I've been sworn to ..."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered. "So ... DeMarco's activities overseas ... those have all been orchestrated against foreign countries at the behest of an American sponsor?"  
  
"Like I said before, Craig, you'd make a great analyst."  
  
He threw his head back and closed his eyes. There were answers to the questions swimming around inside his brain, but he knew that Chloe – despite their friendship – wasn't going to give up anything easily. After all he had done for her – after all the dinners and movies and favors and gifts and late night talks about growing older as a divorced mother of three – she still wouldn't violate a sacred oath made to the Supreme Commander of the Free World.  
  
"You've got class, Chloe," he said.  
  
"I pick and choose my friends wisely," she agreed. "Not all of us do. In fact, some of us end up regretting the choice of friends – and professional colleagues – that we've made along the way." Finally, she repeated, "You know how the President gets about these things."  
  
"The President?"  
  
"Yeah," she answered. "My boss. Your boss. All of our bosses, really."  
  
Again, he stared at the picture.  
  
"DeMarco's an American agent?"  
  
"Pack up your desk, Craig."  
  
He shook his head. "DeMarco's receiving his orders from someone close to the President?"  
  
"Take a shower, sweetheart. You're in line for a promotion."  
  
"But ... who?"  
  
"That's where I draw the line."  
  
"Come on, Chloe."  
  
"Craig, I can't."  
  
"Chloe, if this guy is here, the authorities are on to him."  
  
"DeMarco is being watched."  
  
"By whom?"  
  
"DeMarco is being watched."  
  
"By whom?"  
  
"I said, DeMarco is being watched."  
  
He rolled his fingers into a fist and almost pounded his desk.  
  
"Chloe, what does that mean?"  
  
Suddenly, Donovan glared at the picture of DeMarco over his computer screen, and he swore that the man winked again.  
  
"... by the same person who's been giving him orders." With even stronger conviction, he stated, "DeMarco's being watched by the same person who ordered him off our radar a few years ago."  
  
"You keep up this thinking, Craig, and we're on for more than just dinner," she replied. "You're on the fast track. It's always good to hang with someone on the fast track."  
  
"You have to run?" he asked.  
  
"You know I do."  
  
He reached for the phone. "We're not through with this conversation."  
  
"When you have more analyzed," she offered, "give me a call. I can always use a good babysitter, Craig, but you and I both know how much this country needs a patriot."  
  
After a long pause, she said, "Be a patriot, you're better at it," and hung up.  
  
End of Chapter 44 


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45  
  
Six Days, Two Hours  
  
To his delight, Olga stayed with Parker in order to test the effectiveness of the containment suit. He slipped into the unit, and, then, she returned from the airlock, checking the various digital pressure gauges that lined his right arm. With her hands, she checked every seal – his neck, his arms, his gloves, his waist – and Parker – in silent ecstasy – loved every minute of their clinical encounter. He closed his eyes, imagining that the micro-thin, Kevlar-lined protective suit wasn't there, and he could barely control himself from grabbing her hands, pulling her up, and kissing her hard on the mouth. Their lips would taste one another, and he'd clasp her in his arms, and she'd melt into him ... but, of course, there were the containment helmets that allowed absolutely no chance of human contact ... so Parker concentrated on putting any romantic thoughts out of his mind.  
  
"Everything is working," she announced, standing up from completing her examination of the leggings. "The suit is fully sealed and pressurized." She smiled at him, and he nodded. "Mr. Parker is in his own cocoon, complete with a window."  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, "but when do I get to emerge as a beautiful butterfly?"  
  
"That's not going to happen in this lifetime," Talmadge cried out from the other side of the glass wall. "That would be a breach of frightening proportions, and that's a risk I can't allow."  
  
The director stepped forward, just out of Parker's view due to the edge of the wall, and he raised a hand. Through auditory sensors, Parker heard the electronic keying of a touchpad, and he wondered aloud, "What's he doing?"  
  
"He's opening the door," Olga explained.  
  
Suddenly, Parker heard an awesome hiss, and he watched as a fine mist flooded the entire glasswork where it met solid white wall. After a long mechanical breath, the glass started to rise, disappearing into the ceiling, winding slowly on its track. Talmadge reappeared in the opening, and, at last, Frank Parker felt he had regained his freedom ...  
  
... except for the containment suit.  
  
Parker and Olga walked over to the port. Parker realized that his suit was heavier than he had expected. His steps were difficult, at first, but that he found a kind of peace with the seams. He lifted his arms and found that he could only reach shoulder height.  
  
"How's it feel?" Talmadge asked.  
  
"Sluggish," the chrononaut explained. "It feels like I'm walking around covered in dried mud."  
  
The director laughed. "Well, get used to it. Consider it a necessary evil while you're here. That suit is the only protection mankind has against infection."  
  
"I get it," Parker replied, "but I hope no one has a dangerous fear of the Pillsbury Doughboy because I'll bet that's who I look like."  
  
"You look fine," Olga replied.  
  
"It's based on the same technology that gave us the Apollo space suits, Frank," Talmadge explained. "The suit isolates you completely in your own environment."  
  
"What about air?"  
  
"That's a major scientific advance from the Apollo program," the director said. "The suit has its own microelectronic filtration system. You're breathing the same air that we air, and the filters release only carbon dioxide into the air around you. You might not be able to feel it, but there's a small backpack on your right shoulder that contains filter packs. They'll need to be changed every twenty-four hours, but, otherwise, this suit will give you limited mobility."  
  
Swinging his arms left to right, trying to get used to the feel of the suit, he asked, "How am I supposed to do my job in this thing, Bradley?"  
  
"It's the best we can do, Frank."  
  
"I feel like I'm walking in water."  
  
"You'll be able to go into the field – with support teams – but you won't be an active player," Talmadge presented the scenario. "Consider yourself more of a coach than a player. It's all we can do to ensure both your safety and mankind's survival."  
  
"I understand," Parker said.  
  
"Good," he agreed, "because we have a briefing to get to." Nodding at Olga, he ordered, "Have Ramsey gather the staff in the conference room at once. I understand he has Craig Donovan on standby for a video link out of D.C. Also, you're going to have to have Mr. Finkle's military status re- activated and his security upgraded for what he's going to hear."  
  
"You're kidding?" Parker interrupted. "Bradley, look, Ebdon's a great guy, but this is no time to start reconsidering the way we operate."  
  
Talmadge sighed. "Frank, if you were to collapse in the field, there's only one person at present who can make skin-to-skin contact with you if it became absolutely necessary."  
  
"But you said you have a vaccine?"  
  
"We do," he said, "but there's no way that the CDC is going to allow us to inoculate key personnel for the purposes of a single mission. That serum is rare. Consider it a 'Holy Grail.' I've already made the decision that Finkle is going with us, and I won't argue with you about it." With a smirk, he added, "Feel free to file a formal protest in your own timeline."  
  
Sarcastically, Parker spat, "Thanks a lot."  
  
Turning back to Olga, Talmadge finished, "Tell Nate to have everything ready within the next fifteen minutes. We're always operated on borrowed time as it is with these BackSteps. We've almost lost a day. I don't want to lose another minute to red tape or governmental protocol."  
  
"Right away, sir," she replied, and she quickly disappeared down the hallway. Parker watched his go – his heart beating harder and harder as she shrank in his vision – until she rounded a far corner.  
  
"This is no time to let your personal feelings get in the way, Frank."  
  
"I know," he replied.  
  
"You have to understand that – despite Olga's affections for you – she has other people in her life now."  
  
Parker glanced at the director.  
  
"She's been seeing Channing for quite some time," Talmadge confessed. "They've been together since – well – since he came aboard the BackStep Program."  
  
The younger man sighed. "Tell me that doesn't sound like Channing saw an opportunity for a woman on the rebound, Bradley."  
  
"That isn't my point."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
Talmadge shoved his hands in his pockets. "Like I said, we're on borrowed time, so I'll give you the courtesy of keeping this brief." He fixed a stare at Parker. "Consider Olga 'off limits,' Frank. I can't have your feelings for her – or her feelings for you – getting in the way of your fulfilling your duties. In the past, I was willing to look the other way with the attraction. But now, with Channing in her life, I don't have time to play the role of guidance counselor for any of you. You can simplify my job for me by simply staying focused on the mission."  
  
Parker thought about it. He remembered the look on Olga's face when she finally saw him alive in the isolation chamber. Her eyes were hopeful. Her smile was forgiving. They had embraced, and Frank Parker knew how Helen of Troy had sent two nations to war. He knew he'd fight to his death – if it came to it – to save the life of the woman he loved from any doom. But in this timeline, he was being asked to shelve all of his needs, all of his emotions, and only do his job.  
  
"Fine," he concluded.  
  
"Do I have your word?"  
  
"You have my word, Bradley."  
  
"Good," the director replied. "Then ... the clock's ticking, Frank. I think it's about time everyone heard the reason for your BackStep."  
  
End of Chapter 45 


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46  
  
Six Days, One Hour, Fifty-One Minutes  
  
Sitting behind his desk in the subterranean offices of 'Darlington Industries,' Senator Arthur Pendley kept busy at work, reviewing the progress reports and research data that had been prepared for him. Belinda – his secretary – stopped in to fill his coffee and deliver another stack of statistical analyses for him to review, but, otherwise, he was left completely alone in the elegant steel and glass chamber he had specially constructed to his personal designs. Here – sealed within a vault one hundred feet below the ground – Pendley would be safe in the event of any nuclear catastrophe. The materials – after all – were top secret and highly classified and only available through a single source: extraterrestrial. Once his position within the government intelligence elite had granted him access to the materials surrounding the events that took place in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947, he knew what he must do, and he had made it his life's work. Of course, Roswell was only the first recovery, the only event of cosmic significance made aware to those within the NSA as well as the personnel of Project BackStep. In 1949, there was the unrecorded event outside Colorado Springs, Colorado. In 1953, it happened again in the wooded territory outside Spokane, Washington. In 1955, a dozen saucers crashed in Salida Del Sol, New Mexico, and the materials recovered – sadly, the occupants had all perished in the catastrophe – eventually provided the first steps toward Darlington's construction.  
  
Throughout the rest of the 1950's, 60's, and 70's, Pendley knew of seventy-seven separate Otherworld Incidents (O.I.'s, as they were called by the response teams sent to retrieve any and all substances left behind). After his stint with Special Forces in 1977, Pendley returned home, a local hero, and he was easily elected as a junior senator from the state of Virginia – one of the last few sacred states that truly valued military service. It was his assignment to the United States' Senate Committee on the Investigation of Foreign Intelligence (he always smirked at the irony of 'foreign' meaning 'alien' amongst those 'in the know') that opened the doors to what he knew about Roswell, Otherworld technology, and the beyond. Time travel, he learned, was hypothetically possible. As a matter of fact, there was a group of scientists holed up within Area 51 working on harnessing the science behind the Roswell craft. Apparently, the aliens traveled from their world to ours not so much by the use of distance as they did by bending time – they plotted courses from one point in the universe to another, and they merely traversed the distance in its temporal relationship with the activation of a complex series of time shifts. Pendley didn't insist on understanding the science behind it; he only wanted to know how it could be used to his advantage.  
  
The 1980's brought a wealth of additional extraterrestrial material to Earth – there were, literally, hundreds of undocumented crashes (it would appear that traveling through time was even more treacherous than traveling across matter) that had provided a vast storage of material for his dream project: Darlington. In total secrecy, he began construction – with the use of several black budget companies – in the subterranean levels of the Heston. However, it wasn't until recently – within the last two years – that the arrival of Larnord, the Mallathorn, signaled a possible path for Pendley's journey. As events unfolded, Larnord was more and more forthcoming on the principles of time travel, and Pendley at last was able to accelerate his planning to some final stages ... because he had a vision.  
  
The government, of course, had been using time travel to correct what the NSA or the President or his Cabinet had deemed a 'correctable event,' and Pendley scoffed at their short-sightedness. Stopping a viral outbreak was one thing: possessing the technology to alter existence through the use of Mallathorn science was another. While Project BackStep was running around the word saving every cat that fell out of every tree, Pendley and his team were calculating weapons applications for time travel.  
  
After all, why save the cat when the cat served no purpose?  
  
Why not destroy the cat – and all those who love it – if there stands some gain?  
  
Pendley sat back as he thought about the fall of the Soviet Empire in the 1980's. Years and years of build-up of weapons that now were fundamentally shelved – stockpiled in warehouses or airfields or military bases around the United States – resulted in no gain ... only the useless expense of resources. Imagine if – through the use of time control – you could've prevented the Soviet Union from ever existing? Countless billions of dollars could have been salvaged and spent on other programs – domestic defense, continued space exploration, the pursuit of a democratic manifest destiny. The possibilities were endless, and, sadly, the pinheads in control through the last two decades didn't have the vision to make use of such technology for the expressed purposes of making the United States the only superpower in the world. Instead, they squandered it away, used it to place hundreds of intellectuals and specialists to work studying the probabilities of altering time, of harnessing a mechanism that, inevitably, only allowed them to step through the door of existence and walk backward seven days ... seven days ... seven days ...  
  
'What could you do with seven days?' Pendley thought.  
  
He shook his head. It was – if ever there were one – a political travesty. It was a mockery of the potential of human history. Using time travel as an existential band-aid was one thing; using time travel as a weapon to enforce the sovereignty of the American people was another ... and Pendley was going to do just that. It would, as the years passed, make him a very powerful man. He could have anything he desired, but all he wanted was to serve his country. Those who opposed him would be eliminated. He would simply have them removed from existence in the most horrific means available to him ... not because he was a villain but because it was the right thing to do.  
  
The intercom buzzed, and he tapped a button.  
  
"Yes, Belinda?"  
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir," she replied officially, "but Dr. Watanabe is ready for you in the Cubicle."  
  
He smiled at the nickname he had given Project Kupher's command center. 'The Cubicle.' It referred to a small working space ... but, oh, the things that would inevitably be done from that post were anything but small.  
  
"He's prepared for the first test?"  
  
"He didn't say specifically, sir," she said, "but he did say that he would like to review several possible targets with you."  
  
Smiling, Pendley reached down to the side of his desk and retrieved his briefcase. Opening it, he found the manilla folder that contained a single page – adorned with the crest of the White House – and he took it firmly in hand as he rose. He wouldn't be debating any list of possible targets with Watanabe. Now wasn't the time for debate. Now was the time for leadership, and, as leader, Pendley knew he had to send a message. Time was on their side, so he knew that – whatever message he had prepared to deliver – it had better be a good one.  
  
He knew that this one – with this target – he would capture the attention of those whom he most desperately needed to understand. He was no longer going to be a senior senator from the state of Virginia.  
  
With this target, he was about to become the most powerful man in the free world, and there wasn't a thing the most powerful military might in the free world could do about it.  
  
"Tell Dr. Watanabe I'm on my way."  
  
End of Chapter 46 


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47  
  
Six Days, One Hour, Forty-Two Minutes  
  
By the time Parker walked the remainder of the distance to the program's conference room, he could feel a thin layer of sweat starting to drip under his arms. The suit had a climate-control mechanism, and he quickly reached down, tapping the key, lowering the internal temperature by a few degrees.  
  
"This isn't good," he warned Talmadge.  
  
"What is it, Frank?"  
  
"I know that they say 'the clothes make the man,' but this suit's heavy ... it's heavier than I thought it would be ... and I'm going to have to conserve a helluva lot of energy if I'm going to be of any use to you on this mission, Bradley."  
  
"Don't trouble yourself with the logistics now," the director explained. "This is the first chance we've had to put the suit on trial. I know that you can make this mission a reality. Failure isn't an option." Softening his tone and sounding almost paternal, he added, "We'll take it one step at a time."  
  
Arms crossed, Michelson stood outside the door to the conference room. By the expression on the man's face, Parker could tell he was anticipating – almost prompting – a confrontation. If he weren't trapped under the suit, he'd be happy to oblige.  
  
"This has gone too far, Bradley," the young man said.  
  
"This isn't open for debate."  
  
"Well, I'm not going to stand here with my mouth shut any longer."  
  
"This isn't your decision, Channing," the director responded firmly. "This has come down from the Committee. Frank's been requested in Washington." With a hint of cynicism in his voice, Talmadge added, "Larnord has been made aware of Frank's arrival in our timeline, and he would like very much to speak with him."  
  
"Don't the suits in Washington realize that, by doing this, we're putting the lives of every living being at risk?" Michelson asked.  
  
"I'm quite certain that's a variable the NSA has considered."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
Parker raised his hand to his chest. "What about me?"  
  
"Are you comfortable with this?"  
  
"It wasn't my idea, either."  
  
Smiling, Michelson asked, "And you've a long history of following orders, is that it, Frank?"  
  
"No," Parker replied, "but I also have a clinical history of mental instability ... so you might want to think twice about what you say around me."  
  
"You're willing to risk the lives of all of those people?"  
  
"I'm willing to follow orders, Channing."  
  
"That isn't the question."  
  
"It's the only answer I have."  
  
"What about Olga?" Michelson asked.  
  
"What about her?"  
  
Leaning forward, the man tried, "Are you willing to risk her death in this whole affair, Frank?"  
  
Smirking, Parker replied, "In case you haven't notice, Olga's a big girl. I think she can take care of herself." Before the man could continue, Parker added, "And, as I understand it, Olga is the person responsible for saving the lives of the soldiers and one civilian infected by temporal contamination. I think, if I were you, I'd give her more credit ... but maybe that's just me."  
  
Realizing that he had already lost the argument long before it had begun, he added, "Bradley, I want you to know that I'll be filing a Formal Protest with the NSA. I do have some sway with the Committee, and, if I can do anything to see this charade ended, I'll make it so."  
  
Talmadge released Parker's arm and took a step forward. Despite standing six inches shorter than Michelson, the director physically held his own against the man. "You do that," he agreed, his face showing a hint of anger. "Otherwise, I'd advise you not to jeopardize our friendship by continuing to block our way into the conference room. Now ... you can step aside and remain an active participant on this mission ... or I can have security confine you to your quarters."  
  
"Is that a threat?"  
  
"Take it however you like."  
  
"I wouldn't be the first chrononaut you've had to make that threat to."  
  
"No," Talmadge agreed, "but the difference between you and Frank Parker – since that appears to be what you're driving at – is that you may not continue to serve the BackStep Program if I have to make such a demand. He isn't from our timeline. I don't pull any strings for him. The last time I checked, you were." Composing himself, reaching out for Parker's arm once again, he repeated, "Step aside."  
  
Begrudgingly, Michelson moved to his right. Politely, he reached out, grasped the metal arm, and opened the door, holding it for the two men to enter the room.  
  
Inside, Nathan Ramsey blocked the way.  
  
"Sir, I protest!"  
  
"It's good to know that some things never change," Parker quipped.  
  
Pointing an angry finger at the chrononaut, Ramsey barked, "And I'll not hear so much as one insubordinate word from you this lifetime, Parker!"  
  
"You have my deepest apologies, Nate."  
  
Ignoring the crack, Ramsey exclaimed, "If I do, you can be damn sure that your personnel file will be reactivated, and I'll log from memory every single incident of condescension, of insult, of rule-breaking, of NSA violation, of alcohol abuse ..."  
  
"That's enough, Nate," Talmadge interrupted.  
  
Stepping up face-to-helmet with the younger man, Ramsey seethed, "Respectfully, sir, I'm not finished."  
  
"Say what it is you have to say, Ramsey," Parker challenged. "We have work to do, and I, for one, would like to get to it."  
  
Twisting his face into an expression of contempt, the director of security let loose a tirade that even Parker hadn't expected: "Parker, you've been through a BackStep recently in order to get here, so you may not be thinking clearly. I'd like to remind you that, during the time you served this program in your previous life, you were nothing but an unruly drunk. Yes. That's my professional opinion. Sure, you might've saved life as we know it once or twice so far as the NSA is concerned, but don't think for a second that they weren't made aware of your insubordination or your recklessness. So, all of that said, do you know what really pisses me off? Do you really wanna know what really yanks my chain? Well, I'll tell you. What I'm upset about is that, despite all good evidence proving that you're a rouge with a bad attitude, the NSA has decided to put you in a suit – an untested, unproven suit – and they're completely comfortable with letting you out of that cage in the basement to go around and bump into only God knows how many other fine Americans and risk contamination! I can't believe this! We're almost guaranteeing our own extinction! So far as we know, that suit is just a ruse! It's nothing more than one big placebo! How are we supposed to know that you won't infect the very first person you touch?"  
  
"Is that it?" Parker asked.  
  
"That's it!" Ramsey barked.  
  
Reaching out with his free arm, Parker slapped Ramsey on the shoulder and gripped him tight for a second.  
  
"There you go, Nate," Parker said. "Now you'll definitely be the first to know."  
  
Pale, mumbling to himself, the director of security shook off the chrononaut's hand and staggered more than stepped away.  
  
Released from Talmadge's hold, Parker stepped forward to the conference table, and he glanced at the faces of the staff seated around it. He saw Mentnor, who was smiling pleasantly over his shuffled papers. He saw Ebdon Finkle, a curious look in his eyes as he stared down at whatever it was the scientist was calculating. He saw Dr. Nina Welles, whom he remembered from the field, from his arrival in this timeline. And he saw Olga ...  
  
Sweet Olga.  
  
"Well," he began, "I guess it's safe to say that the rumors of my demise were premature."  
  
A polite laughter erupted from around the table, and Parker pulled back a chair and sat down.  
  
"Hello, buddy."  
  
Glancing up in the direction of the voice, Parker found the wall monitor active, and he saw the smiling face of Craig Donovan staring back at him.  
  
"Hello, buddy," he said in response.  
  
The two men had served together for so long – first in the military and then with BackStep – that they had developed a kinship that grew beyond ordinary friendship. Together, they had seen the best and worst that life had to offer, through combat and through reward for service to their country. They had an unspoken understanding of one another. They didn't need to waste words communicating unnecessary weight. They could almost finish one another sentences.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Donovan asked.  
  
"About forty pounds heavier than usual," Parker admitted.  
  
"You don't exactly look svelte."  
  
"Thanks for noticing. I was telling Bradley that this suit not exactly linen."  
  
"Linen?" Donovan tried. "Since when would the infamous Frank Parker ever be caught dead wearing linen?"  
  
"I know, I know," the chrononaut replied. "The way I live my life, I'm more likely to be caught dead wearing nothing at all."  
  
"Now that's the most honest thing you've said since you entered the room."  
  
Parker cocked his head, showing his curiosity. "Just where the hell are you?"  
  
"I'm in D.C.," the black man replied.  
  
"Uh-huh," Parker said.  
  
"Why do I not like what you're thinking?"  
  
"Because, if you were in my position," Parker explained, "You'd be thinking the same thing. Would you mind my asking why you're no longer with the program?"  
  
He could tell by the expression on his partner's face that he wasn't exactly comfortable discussing it in front of the others. "Another time, another place," Donovan told him, "and you can ask me that question again."  
  
"You can count on it."  
  
"I'll be ready."  
  
The room fell silent.  
  
After the pause, Talmadge stepped to the head of the table, sliding his chair out and taking a seat. "All right," he announced, "now that the pleasantries, greetings, and salutations are out of the way, I think it's time this briefing got underway."  
  
End of Chapter 47 


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48  
  
*** At the same time ***  
  
Walking down the long hall, Pendley reached inside his suit coat and pulled his identification card from his lapel pocket. Reaching the massive steel door, he fitted his card into the black slot and waited for the electronic eye to read the encrypted magnetic strip. After a second, the light changed from red to green, and the man watched as each of the locking bars snapped away from the door – one by one – clanking heavily as they released the latches, freeing the door from its lock. When they finished, the door swung slowly open on automated hydraulics – after all, no human being alive possessed the physical strength to open such a huge plate – and he stepped into the 'Crypt.'  
  
The 'Crypt' – he had dubbed it with the name long not long after its construction – was three levels, each descending like concentric circles, the outermost top layer being the widest, and the third layer – the deepest – held the core for all activity that took place within the fictitious entity that was Darlington: it held the Cubicle. A single central stairway – much like a fixed escalator – led down from the doorway to the Cubicle, and Pendley stared out across the structure that had once only populated his wildest dream.  
  
Yes, he agreed with Dr. Eli Watanabe, the entire complex looked very much like something out of a James Bond film, but the significant difference between the facts and the fantasy was that the 'Crypt' served a purpose while the movie sets of spy movies were little more than fancy blinking lights and well-lit aluminum rafters. Here, within the sealed door, this set worked. It was real. From here, Arthur Pendley was going to set his plan in motion for the betterment of mankind. He was no stock villain with a catch phrase and some Hollywood scar. He was a war hero. He was a respected senator. He was part of Washington's intelligence elite. Now, with the help of secret government funds, he would be a savior.  
  
Level Three housed several work stations – each lined to the curve of the wall – and these posts monitored events from around the world. News. Weather. Everything. Anything that happened anywhere was being monitored by his technicians. His tenure with the U.S. Senate had taught him that, more often than not, the truth of reality was hidden in scraps of information. There were no magic wands. There were no blackboard equations. Here, life was measured through the composition of hundreds – if not thousands – of complex variables that he watched over ... yes, like a God. If it was happening, he needed to know. If covert U.S. operatives fell under enemy fire in Afghanistan, he needed to know. If temperatures over the North Pole rose a staggering three degrees and the water level of the Earth's oceans was going to rise by one-tenth of one-tenth of one-tenth of one percent, he needed to know. The sum activity of life itself could be monitored on Level Three, and Arthur Pendley watched over it all.  
  
Level Two housed, mainly, the technology that made the Cubicle possible. Massive conduits sending incredible volts of energy through this secret base's power support systems – it had been designed to be maintained in the event of nuclear assault, thanks to the materials recovered in UFO craft retrievals – lined the walls. They were bundled six to a stream, knotted six streams to wall, and a walkway that led the entire way around the level was constructed of the highest grade titanium available. On Level Two opposite the stairway was a single work station – a power monitoring port – and, even from this distance, Pendley could read all of the meters registering their green lights at full capacity. This base was fully operational. It had been for two months. All it needed was a single test ... and that would happen shortly.  
  
Level One was the brain: the Cubicle. It was a globe – a sphere – encircled by a bank of monitors hanging on massive steel arms. Another steel walkway surrounded the Cubicle, and there was only a single doorway – an open frame – that allowed one to enter or exit the control chair within the hanging monitors. The power lines led up to the brain, and it reminded Pendley was the way the spinal cord stretched down from the grey matter inside one's head. It was perfectly designed, perfectly envisioned for a single purpose:  
  
Achieving the perfection of a wholly imperfect world.  
  
"But not for long," he said to himself.  
  
Walking down the stairway, Pendley nodded politely at the technicians going about their duties. He knew, for the time being, they were necessary. After all, someone had to monitor all of the data coming into the installation. Someone had to watch and measure and collate the information that he needed to make the decisions that would be forthcoming. However, once the Cubicle was brought on line, he truly believed that the facility could be operated by a single person. It was designed as such, but, without a test, he wasn't willing to take a chance. Too much effort, too much money would be squandered if he failed. Once the test was complete, the technicians would be disposed of ... eventually. At that point, they would serve no other purpose but to a drain on his resources. At that point, perhaps he would find that even Dr. Watanabe was expendable, and Pendley would survive – alone – in the center of a universe that would inevitably revolve around him.  
  
"Maybe I am a Bond villain," he told himself, and he chuckled.  
  
Reaching Level One, he nodded as Watanabe stepped out of the Cubicle. His expression was grim.  
  
"What is it, doctor?"  
  
Smiling weakly, Watanabe held up an active satellite phone. "There's been ... an unfortunate development."  
  
Pendley had made a career of distinction out of disposing of unfortunate developments. He wasn't about to see his dream derailed.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I think ... I think you had better hear this for yourself."  
  
Reaching out, he took the sat/phone. Placing it to his ear, he said, "This is Pendley."  
  
"Senator, this is Colonel Chamberlin."  
  
The senator smiled. It was good to have friends in high places. As a matter of fact, those friends were one of the linchpins to his success. Darlington would never have been possible without the support of patriots like Chamberlin ... patriots who realized that their government had lost its way long ago. The colonel shared Pendley's vision for a new tomorrow, and, together, they were about to make it happen.  
  
"I'm about to change the course of human history, colonel," Pendley told the man. "I hope this isn't trivial."  
  
"It isn't, sir," Chamberlin replied succinctly. "Information has recently come to my attention that I believe is of concern to the success of Project Kupher."  
  
"What is it, colonel?"  
  
"As fate would have it, sir, Frank Parker has returned."  
  
The senator suddenly sucked in a breath of air and choked. He wasn't entirely certain he had heard the colonel correctly, despite the scientific accuracy of satellite telephones.  
  
"Colonel, either we have what would appear to be an extraordinarily poor connection or I'm in the process of losing my mind. Would you kindly repeat what you just said?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Frank Parker is here."  
  
"Frank Parker is dead," Pendley insisted flatly.  
  
"That's correct, sir," the colonel agreed. "The Frank Parker from our timeline perished on September 11th, sir, in an act of service to his country. It is the opinion of the NSA temporal theoreticians that the Frank Parker currently being contained in Area 51 is, in fact, a rogue chrononaut from another continuum."  
  
"Another continuum?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"That is what I've been led to believe."  
  
"But how did he get here?"  
  
"At present, I do not have an answer to that question. My theoreticians have several theories, but none of them appear to be set in stone, if you'll pardon the expression, sir."  
  
Pendley closed his eyes, losing himself in thought for a moment. He knew who Frank Parker was, and he knew what Parker represented. The senator's only fear throughout the process of bringing his dreams to life was that damned BackStep Program ... a bunch of temporal Boy Scouts hoping about the timeline setting things right that the government had determined needed fixing. Now, here was a variable he couldn't account for, he had no means to possibly predict. There was no such thing as coincidence, he knew. There were only absolutes, and the universe was filled with them. Finding them – deciphering them – was the only edge any living creature had over another. That was survival of the fittest.  
  
"Colonel, what has been the reaction of the NSA Oversight Committee?"  
  
"Once they were assured by field operatives that the man in custody was, in fact, Frank Parker, they convened an emergency session," Chamberlin elucidated. "They have ordered Mr. Parker to Washington."  
  
"For what purpose?"  
  
"They have ordered Mr. Parker to meet with Larnord, at the request of the Mallathorn himself."  
  
Sniffing, Pendley asked, "Why do I find that of little surprise?"  
  
"Once I learned of this, I thought it prudent to contact you, despite the lateness of the hour," the colonel continued. "How would you like me to proceed?"  
  
As he knew, the universe was full of absolutes, and, of one thing Arthur Pendley was absolutely certain: he wouldn't let the wild card named Frank Parker or that tinkering temporal overlord of the Mallathorn to stand in the way of achieving what others dismissed as impossible.  
  
"Colonel, I want you to capture Frank Parker."  
  
"Understood. That can be accomplished with little risk to the program. As you know, we've been prepared for every possible contingency ... with respect to the Mallathorn."  
  
"Yes, but I do want you to allow him his meeting with Larnord," Pendley added. "After all, when the master controlling the flow time itself asks you to Washington for a chat, I'm quite certain it isn't to talk about the weather. I want to know what they discuss. I want to know every detail. Do not abduct either of them until the purpose behind their meeting is absolutely clear. Do you understand? Information is absolutely essential for us to remain one step ahead, colonel, and whatever information these two men exchange, I must know what it is."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
"Contact me for further instructions ... once you have them in your custody."  
  
"I will, senator."  
  
"And colonel?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"If Mr. Parker resists being detained," Pendley added, "feel free to use whatever force necessary to bring him under your control with the exception of lethal force. I repeat: do not kill him." The senator paused, considered the variables that were configuring into one glorious pattern inside his mind's eye. "However, if Larnord dies in the process, you'll not hear an ill word from me. Are we clear?"  
  
"I understand perfectly, sir."  
  
Pendley switched the sat/phone off and turned to the doctor.  
  
"That has been dealt with," he announced.  
  
"Is it anything we should concern ourselves with?" Watanabe asked.  
  
"No," Pendley decided. "At this point, there's no turning back." Retrieving the single page of paper from his shirt pocket, the senator explained, "Besides, I think it about time that you and I went hunting, Eli."  
  
End of Chapter 48 


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49  
  
Six Days, One Hour, Thirty-Five Minutes  
  
"In four days ... at precisely 12:08 pm, Eastern Standard Time ... a Saudi Arabian businessman named Majd el Din Zamal will be killed an act of terrorism that takes place on American soil," Parker announced to the quorum of expectant faces around the table, all of them focused on him. "I can't be entirely certain about your timeline, but from where I'm from this will be the first successful act of terrorism following 9/11."  
  
"What did you say his name was?" Talmadge asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Majd el Din Zamal," the chrononaut replied. Quickly, he added, "He used to deal in oil, but, since the late 1980's, he's been principally involved in humanitarian work around the Middle East." Parker shook his head. "Don't go pulling out any of your top secret files, Bradley. You won't find his name anywhere unless it's been written in invisible ink. He isn't mentioned in any intelligence briefing. Zamal isn't part of any threat matrix profile, and the CIA or the FBI is not monitoring his activities. You won't find him listed on any Homeland Security watch-list, either."  
  
"Why is that?" Talmadge tried. "What's our interest in him?"  
  
"He's what you might call an anonymous ally," Parker answered. "His codename is Lone Ranger, and, so far as I know, it's only used in Presidential memos. I'm not talking about the 'general alerts' variety. I'm talking about those concealed by Executive Privilege." The man shifted a bit in his chair, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of the suit, but nothing changed. Instead, he reached for the climate control and lowered the internal temperature a few more degrees. "What I know is the basic stuff: at the behest of the President, Mr. Zamal was coordinating his work with the Secretary of State, so everything – every telephone call, every meeting – was completely on the up-and-up. Our end of the bargain was to keep his identity secret ... but, apparently, we failed ... or we will fail, if we don't keep this event from happening." He gestured with his hands in the air. "You know how most Arabs feel about good ole Uncle Sam? We're not exactly kissin' cousins. Zamal didn't want to take any chance at being caught collaborating with the enemy. It was for his protection, and it was for the safety of his family."  
  
"What was this Mr. Zamal working on?" Michelson interrupted rashly. "You said he was originally involved in the sale of oil. What? Was he lowering prices ... or was he simply trying to make a bigger barrel?"  
  
Smiling, Parker nodded. "That's cute, Channing. That's really cute. In another lifetime – maybe in another timeline – I might've said the same thing."  
  
"I hope you're not expecting me to take that as a compliment."  
  
"Take it any way you like."  
  
"Frank," Talmadge piped in, trying to keep the conversation not only civil but on track. "In what capacity was this Zamal serving U.S. interests?"  
  
"That's a million dollar question, Bradley," he said. "The truth is ... Zamal wasn't. At least, he wasn't directly serving any U.S. cause." He leaned forward, resisting the pressure of his suit to hold him back in his chair. "What he did was very indirect, and the White House wanted it kept hush-hush." Realizing every pair of eyes was on him, he announced, "As it turns out, Zamal was the principle architect for what appeared to be a very real possibility for a lasting peace plan in the Mid-East." Again, Parker held up his hands, hoping to stave off any nonbelievers. "Now, I know what you're thinking. It's a fool's paradise, right? Yeah. That's what I thought, too ... until I learned that Mr. Zamal had already held meetings with the heads of state of Israel, Iran, Jordan, Syria, and a few other hotspots that don't need a mention."  
  
"So what?" Ramsey interrupted. "So this Zamal character was supposedly serving the peace process. That's great, Parker, but it isn't as if any peace plan over there ever lasts. Hell, even their cease fires need cease fires."  
  
"This is different, Ramsey," Parker tried with conviction. "Apparently, Zamal was using his business contacts to forge alliances between these countries in ways that kept them silent partners with one another. He was – he is – the intermediary." He knocked on the tabletop. "Think about it: here are these countries that haven't been willing for the last century to sit down together as so much as a picnic table ... but Zamal had them working together without their knowledge!" He controlled his enthusiasm, realizing that he probably wasn't winning over any skeptics. "All I can tell you is that, based on what I was told, he was making progress ... that's why the President ordered the NSA Oversight Committee to send me back seven days to save his hide from the blast."  
  
"The blast?" Olga asked, suddenly captivated by the conversation.  
  
"The act of terrorism I mentioned at the beginning," Parker explained. "As it turns out, Zamal is coming here."  
  
Glancing up with beaming eyes, Mentnor muttered aloud, "Bradley, that's it. That's the other end of the parallelogram! Zamal! It's not an event! It's a person!"  
  
"Here?" Talmadge tried. "Zamal is coming to the United States?"  
  
"To D.C.," Parker confessed.  
  
"What for?"  
  
Grimacing, Parker shrugged. "I couldn't say. That part we never figured out. Don't get me wrong. We did all of the digging we could, no pun intended, but we never learned why he was here. All I know is that he arrived at this hotel in the D.C. area – it's called the Heston Tower. Moments after he checked in, the entire place went up in an explosion."  
  
"Good lord," Finkle thought aloud. "Here comes a man of peace, and he's brought down by an act of war."  
  
"Ironic, isn't it?" Nina asked.  
  
"The Heston?" Donovan suddenly spoke to the crowd via the teleconference link. "Frank, you've got to be kidding! That's one of the premiere hotels in Washington! It's been on the fast track for the last year. The British Prime Minister is staying there now, but he'll be gone by tomorrow evening." The man relaxed in his chair, brushing a hand across his hair. "Hell, I know most of their staff security! I've briefed and debriefed them when some of the political bigwigs come to town. Several of the Heston's staff are actually former Navy SEALs, Frank ... the kind of guys you and I used to hang out with." Confused, he shook his head. "I doubt very much that there's any way for a terrorist group to infiltrate the place."  
  
Surrendering, the chrononaut held up his hands. "Look, all I know is all I know. And, from what I know, I can tell you that, in four days, Heston Tower goes boom, Zamal is killed in the explosion, and our nation's prayers for peace in a foreign land gets buried under the rubble."  
  
"This is going to be easier than I thought it would be," Michelson taunted. "All we have to do is evacuate the hotel. Have Donovan call the D.C. police. Have Heston Tower closed for a few days."  
  
"It's never that simple," Olga offered, sinking into her chair. She had been awake for more hours than she could remember, and she desperately needed rest. Every member of the staff did.  
  
"We could do that, Channing," Mentnor said, watching invisible variables floating in the space in front of him, "but who's to say that would stop the terrorist's from achieving Zamal's death elsewhere?"  
  
Talmadge feverishly jotted several notes on the legal pad he had placed before him. "Frank, did anyone claim responsibility?"  
  
Parker nodded. "We believe the man responsible for the explosion operates out of Damascus. His name is Richard DeMarco. From what I recall, he's due to arrive on a TransGlobal charter flight the day before the blast."  
  
Everyone at the table heard the rumble in Craig Donovan's throat.  
  
"Um, Frank?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Did you say Richard DeMarco?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
"Tell me that you didn't."  
  
"Donovan, what is it?"  
  
"Frank," Donovan offered easily, "DeMarco is already here."  
  
The chrononaut sat up in his chair. He suddenly flushed with an intense heat. Was the suit getting warmer again, or was it a bout of unexpectedly bad news?  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I said, Richard DeMarco is here."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"He's in Washington," Donovan explained. "That's all I know."  
  
"That's impossible."  
  
"Not entirely," Mentnor finally spoke up from his end of the table. Everyone in the room focused their attention on the white-haired scientist. "Frank, you have to keep in mind that we're not dealing with absolutes." He held his right hand. "In your timeline, DeMarco didn't arrive until the day before he blew up the Heston." Next, he held up his left hand. "In our timeline – while it does bare very distinct similarities to yours – he's already here." He placed his hands back on the table. "Despite how hard we examine the possibilities, it's painfully obvious to me that these two universes aren't exactly mirror images of one another."  
  
"DeMarco is here, Frank," Donovan confirmed.  
  
"But for what?" Olga interjected. "I mean ... let's take a look at the facts." Having gathered the attention of the conference group, she sat up proper in her chair. "To the best that we've been able to calculate, everything that Mr. Parker has told us about his timeline coincides – or I should I say 'will coincide' – with the events that are destined to occur in our timeline. If we assume that all things are equal, then mustn't we also assume that Mr. DeMarco's early arrival in our timeline serves some other purpose? Maybe he's not here to kill Mr. Zamal at all. Maybe he has another target in mind."  
  
"If that's the case," Michelson offered, "then how do we even know where to begin?"  
  
"That sounds reasonable," Nina finally contributed to the dialogue. "But – and please keep in mind that I'm new to what you people have quite probably been doing for some time – how could we possibly speculate what DeMarco's true purpose is?"  
  
Shifting his attention to the video link, Talmadge immediately took control of the debate. "Craig, how did you know about DeMarco?"  
  
"He's the prime suspect in an arson case the D.C. area police are investigating right now," Donovan answered.  
  
"Arson?" The director drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Nothing with explosives?"  
  
His eyes wide, the NSA agent sat back in his chair. "Not to my knowledge, Bradley." Quickly, he picked up a pen and wrote something down off screen. "I'll make a telephone call. I'm pretty tight with one of the local detectives. I help him out, he throws me a bone. So far as I've been told, DeMarco torched a compartment at one of those you-store-it facilities outside of town."  
  
"What did he torch?" Ramsey asked. "What was in the compartment?"  
  
"That's what has me bugged," Donovan answered, his eyes rolling. "DeMarco lit a match to a cache of weapons."  
  
"What kind of weapons?"  
  
"Pistols, mostly, from what the report reads," Donovan continued. "I mean ... he tried to burn stuff that wouldn't even burn."  
  
From his chair, Ebdon Finkle rapped his knuckles on the table hard and snapped, "He's sending every one of you a message."  
  
The director nodded at the old man. "How do you mean?"  
  
"Well," Finkle began, slowly studying the inquisitive faces that surrounded him at the conference table, finding himself in the thick of a situation he never dreamed possible, "I think it's safe to say that I hold the record for living the longest with your team, Mr. Talmadge. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a bitter old man. I've lived a good, full life, and I'm happy to be here. I'm happy to help all of you in any way that this old coot can." Olga and Nina smiled at him, and he continued. "But, in my years, I've seen things. I've seen ugly things. I've seen the kind of things that ... well, that men just don't want to talk about after it's over." He pointed at Donovan. "This DeMarco fellow you're talking about reminds me of exactly the way I felt about Adolf Hitler during World War II. I served my country. I killed my share of men, and I have medals that don't mean a thing to me except to show how proud I was to serve the great nation. But Hitler?" Finkle shook his head in disgust. "That was one crazy sonuvabith. He talked a good game. He fooled most of the German people. The officers close to him felt otherwise, but they never did anything about it. And do you know why? It wasn't because they were afraid of losing their lives. Officers and soldiers eventually get used to the idea that they could fall in combat – or they could lose their lives – or they could lose a limb – at any given moment. Like I said, you get used to it. Hitler's officers got used to it." Shaking his head, Finkle said, "The reason those men never did anything about stopping the lunatic was because they were in the exact same situation that you folks are in right now: how do you stop a man who's willing to march in and take a country just because he can do it?" His eyes welled up with moisture, and Parker thought that the man was about to break. "Hitler wasn't evil. Evil you can understand. Evil you can accept. Evil you can fight and lock it away so that it never harms another hair on the head of a child anywhere. But crazy?" He closed his eyes. "The only way you deal with the crazy is to kill it because the crazy don't belong in a sane world."  
  
"I think he's right," Donovan agreed.  
  
"Why's that?" Talmadge asked.  
  
"Because DeMarco didn't make any attempt to hide his identity from the security cameras at the storage facility," the man explained. "It's like he wanted to be filmed."  
  
"Do you mean ... it's like he wanted to be caught?" Parker offered.  
  
"Caught in the act is more like it," Donovan said. "What doesn't make any sense is why? Why would he want to do that?"  
  
"He's crazy," Finkle repeated. "He wants to win the gold medal at the Screw-Loose Olympics."  
  
Michelson interrupted with, "He's sending a message."  
  
"To whom?" Olga asked.  
  
"It isn't about who receives the message," Michelson theorized. "It's the fact that he's a terrorist – he's a known terrorist – and he's on our soil. He's showing us that he can get away with arson. What's next? Murder? If what Frank said is true, then we know that DeMarco is bound to try."  
  
Tapping a gloved finger on the conference table, Parker observed, "We're going to keep him from succeeding."  
  
Smiling at his adversary, the man agreed, "Of course, we are. That is what we do. That's why I'd offer you the argument that his message isn't intended for us. It's intended for someone else. Don't misunderstand me. DeMarco wants an audience. What we need to do is figure out who that audience is. That will bring us one step closer to staying ahead of him, and that's the only way we're going to save Mr. Zamal's life. Given the fact that DeMarco's arrived earlier – much earlier than in Frank's timeline – that's going to be critical for the success of this mission."  
  
"That's pretty much my read on things from this end as well, Bradley," Donovan added. "If DeMarco is here, then he isn't behaving like a textbook terrorist. He's clamoring for attention, at this point. The police have his picture, so they'll be on to him. I think what I need to do is shadow their work." He glanced at the group from the other side of the camera lens. "Let me explore the DeMarco angle while you're getting the team to Washington. I'll have a full report for you when you touch down."  
  
"Craig," Talmadge began, his voice sounding official again, "I don't need to warn you about being careful."  
  
"Since I've been on leave from BackStep, I've been nothing but careful," the man chuckled. "Let me tell you: careful is boring."  
  
"Regardless, don't take any unnecessary risks, Donovan," Ramsey blurted out from his seat. "You may be on leave, but you're still one of the team. I won't lose a man on my watch."  
  
"Thanks, Nate," Donovan admired. "Once you're on my turf, you can watch my back for me."  
  
"It'd be my honor."  
  
"That's it, people," Talmadge announced, rising as the video link between NeverNeverLand and Washington D.C. went dead. "I've a plane standing by. I want to be airborne within two hours." He gestured at one of the women. "Dr. Welles? I'm going to ask that you join us. Your experience in treating anyone exposed to temporal contamination – should the unlikely event occur – will be invaluable."  
  
"Yes, sir," she agreed.  
  
"Mr. Finkle?" Talmadge smiled. "I'm afraid I have the authority to reactivate your service to the United States government, and I'm exercising that option."  
  
With a crooked smile, the man tried, "You mean I've been drafted? Again?"  
  
The director chuckled. "Yes, but I promise you that you won't be confined to rations just as yet. As it stands, you're the only one that can get near Frank Parker without being affected should the need arise. Olga has arranged the necessary clearance for you. You won't be a field agent so much as you'll serve as a consultant. I'll take your oath of celibacy before we've boarded the aircraft.  
  
"Also, Isaac will be joining us until further notice. His assignment to the BackStep Program has been reactivated, and, with his connections in Washington, he'll come in handy should we be asked to brief the President or members of the Cabinet on matters of national security."  
  
Briskly, he clapped his hands together. "That's it, people. You have work to do. Let's get to it."  
  
Everyone rose from the conference table with the notable exception of Frank Parker. The director stepped past his staff filtering past him, and he sat back down in the chair next to the suited chrononaut.  
  
"There's something that's bothering me, Frank."  
  
Parker turned his head, and he realized that, under the helmet, he had begun to sweat. Again, he tapped the sensor pad, lowering the suit temperature. "What is it, Bradley?"  
  
"Mr. Zamal," the director admitted. "You know that inner workings of Washington as well as I do." He folded his hands on the table and thought aloud. "If Zamal had been asked by the President to come to the United States, then the Secret Service would have been responsible for his safety and security. Agents would have met him at the airport. They would've been with him every step of the way. Without a doubt, they would've cleared Heston Tower of any possible threat, especially given what Craig has said about the hotel's security staff. So ... I'm going to go out on a limb here with the suggestion that Mr. Zamal was not here at the official request of our government ... was he?"  
  
Slowly, Parker shook his head.  
  
Talmadge smiled. "I didn't think so," he stated. "Do you have any idea of what he was doing here?"  
  
Parker sighed. His breath momentarily fogged over the faceplate near his nose and mouth. He thought about his answer for a long moment before he finally said, "Unfortunately, that's the one thing that – as hard as we looked – we never found out."  
  
End of Chapter 49 


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50  
  
Six Days, Fifty-Eight Minutes  
  
** Somewhere in the Northern Alaska **  
  
Pulling the binoculars up to his face, Trace Hightower squinted into the eyepiece and stared into the distance. Despite the magnification, the view was much the same: miles and miles and miles of unblemished white plains. Pristine snow blanketed much of the Alaskan frontier, and, aside from the formation of rocks up ahead, he realized how early pioneers – braving an unexplored frontier – must've felt.  
  
"Damn lonely," he said aloud.  
  
"What's that, sir?" the voice from behind carried over his shoulder.  
  
"Nothing, Murphy."  
  
It had been two days since they had left the outpost – an unmarked military installation believed by the American public to have long ago closed down in the scaling back of the military. However, Camp Zulu – as he had heard it referred to by his father-in-law on more than one occasion – didn't seem that far away. Marching for the better part of forty-eight hours into a desolate countryside can do that to anyone. It can play tricks on the mind. He almost believed, if he turned back now, he'd only walk for several hours before he saw signs – the chain link fence with the twirling blue lights – of the installation in the distance. A cold brush with reality – the bitter chill of wind on his face – woke him up, and Hightower reconsidered just how far his team had traveled.  
  
His team.  
  
Not that he had invited any of them along.  
  
They didn't fit his idea of teammates.  
  
Rather, he considered them anchors. Eavedroppers. Babysitters.  
  
And he didn't need any babysitter ... not at the ripe age of thirty- two.  
  
Still, he understood that these men – armed and dangerous – were a necessary evil. They had been a part of his life for two years, and, so long as he could imagine, they'd continue to be a part for some time to come. At least, he liked Murphy. The red-haired Irishman – slightly balding on top – had a healthy sense of humor that, every now and then, he let slip loose. Generally, it came out of hiding when the others – his counterparts, his squadron, or whatever they were called – weren't paying attention. Hightower picked on the joke, but, when he tried to join in, Murphy tightened up. He'd brush off the chuckles as quickly as he'd swat flies – and Hightower had seen the man swat some real insects in the heart of the Amazon.  
  
Stowing the binoculars, he muttered, "Oh, well," and trudged onward through the snow, now almost up to his knees.  
  
"What's that, sir?"  
  
"Nothing, Murphy."  
  
They walked onward across the flatland, the men kicked up the white stuff in their wake. The rocks up ahead would provide them with a safe haven from the wind – a resting spot – for a few moments. Hightower guessed they'd all be relieved the catch their breath and warm their hands sheltered mildly from the cool, but they'd never say. Few of them ever said anything. One or two of the men always offered cursory hellos, but, otherwise, they were trained to remain silent. It was part of the job, and Hightower assumed that's why he concentrated so much on the crunch, crunch, crunching of their feet on the snow to serve as a suitable replacement to conversation.  
  
Grimacing, he saw a glimmer of what must have been sunlight flicker off the rocks, and, subconsciously, he quickened his pace against the snow. As he neared the mound, he realized that he was moving faster and faster. He felt the light kiss of sweat on his forehead, and he brought a gloved hand up to wipe it away. Glancing down, he noticed the fabric wet, much wetter than it should have been. Ignoring it, shaking off any meaning, he continued to walk faster – was he imagining it, or did the snow suddenly feel much lighter?  
  
Looking down, he noticed that the white had taken on a decidedly murkier appearance, not as pale as the patches he had pounded through the last twelve hours. This snow was almost gray ... and it was moving?  
  
"What the hell?"  
  
He stopped where he was, and he felt Murphy bump up against his backside.  
  
"What is it, sir?"  
  
Hightower knelt down, extending his hand toward the sugary white.  
  
To his surprise, it ... moved.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Murphy," he tried, "look at the ground."  
  
Lifting his head, Hightower studied the landscape surrounding his team, and he felt pure shock at the sight of the fallen snow everywhere beginning to shift, to subtly slip and slosh amongst itself, to slowly begin to churn into streams of white molasses. Suddenly, he realized that he was dripping of sweat. Instinctively, he yanked off his glove and held it up in the air, his reddened knuckles also lined with moisture.  
  
"Feel the air," he ordered. "It's ... I'll be damned if it isn't warming up."  
  
Behind him, he heard Murphy go into action, unzipping the collar piece and pulling a microphone up to his mouth.  
  
"Zulu One, Zulu One," he chanted intently into his mike. "This is Snake Eyes. Do you copy?"  
  
From only a few feet away, Hightower heard the deafening crackle of static. Whirling, he watched as Murphy pulled his head away from the earpiece, which dropped out of his ear and dangled useless against his coat – a coat that he now tore open against the wave of heat washing over him, washing over all of them – and he opened his eyes wide.  
  
"Move! Move!"  
  
Before he could stop it from happening, Hightower felt the man's arms at his back, and, together, they were running across the plain, running where they had only once hoped to plod step after merciful step. The snow shifted all around them, morphing from a solid to puffs of gas to muddy water as the landscape lost all cohesion.  
  
"Move, Hightower, move!"  
  
Now, they were sprinting. The men – the team of agents at their back – felt a few steps behind, pulling their jet black Glocks out, taking defensive positions, ripping their coats open as the heat wave touched them. Everywhere he looked, Hightower saw steam, and geysers erupted viciously, spewing sloppy wet snow at them from every direction, as they rushed for their dear lives for the rocks. Through the mist, he saw them thirty feet away ... twenty feet away ... fifteen feet away ... ten feet away ...  
  
"Dive!" Murphy screamed, pulling his own weapon out from under his thick jacket. "Dive!"  
  
Together, almost simultaneously, they hit the nearest rock, and Murphy, scrambling with his free hand, pulled the other man close, tucking him under his shoulder, his chest, to keep him safe from whatever it was that was happening.  
  
A piercing hum – the white noise of the universe itself – shook their eardrums. Where they lay, they literally vibrated on the rocks. The hum crescendoed, reaching a feverish pitch, and they looked up as the noise took form and swallowed the countryside they had just escaped. The snow. The men. Their weapons. The grounds. All of it blossomed into a cascade of a million colors – liquid roiling in an immeasurable blender – and they felt the rocks under them shiver. Rolling, arms now wrapped around one another, they cleared the spot ... and the stone, too, was sucked into the twirling, churning, violent mess that once was there but was now ... what?  
  
Imploding?  
  
Hightower clenched his teeth against the onslaught to his senses. He lay pressed to the ground, Murphy holding him there, and the two of them looked into the eye of a small hurricane.  
  
"Sweet Jesus," Murphy whispered.  
  
As quickly as the storm began, it subsided. The colors exploded, one hue swallowing another, as what was the quiet, uninhabited, unforgiving Alaskan frontier suddenly became itself again ...  
  
... less the ground the two men had just left ...  
  
... less the men who guarded their escape ...  
  
... less everything they had just stepped on, over, and through.  
  
Slowly, Hightower pushed off Murphy's weight, and he stood. Before him – where once the frozen tundra had offered him the challenge of a lifetime in a lifetime full of challenges – he studied a gaping hole in the ground. Water – melting snow – flowed easily over the lip of the crater, slipping and pouring down into the trench marred by blackened soil. He took a step forward, and he felt Murphy's hand on his arm.  
  
"Don't."  
  
Wincing at him, the man said, "I have to."  
  
He stepped to the edge of the abyss.  
  
Math never was Hightower's specialty, but, looking out and down into the crater, he guessed an entire acre of what was once Alaska was, simply, gone.  
  
"What the hell happened?"  
  
Ignoring the question, Murphy tugged the mike back up to his mouth.  
  
"Zulu One, Zulu One," he tried. "This is Snake Eyes. I repeat: this is Snake Eyes. Do you copy?"  
  
The hiss of static was gone. Instead, it was replaced with complete silence.  
  
"Murphy, what the hell just happened?"  
  
Hesitantly, the man stepped up to Hightower's side.  
  
"Sir," he tried, searching for the right words, "your guess would be as good as mine."  
  
Hightower sighed. The warm air was fading, and, to his surprise, the chill was returning quite rapidly. Watching as the slush of snow, soot, and water continued to spill into a hole he couldn't imagine how deep it stretched – two hundred feet? Four hundred? – he pulled his jacket close around his neck. The temperature was dropping quickly, and it was like they were right back where they started before 'whatever' it was had swallowed a mouthful of one of the fifty United States.  
  
"It's almost as if ... it's almost as if none of it ever existed."  
  
End of Chapter 50  
  
... to be continued in PARALLELOGRAM: DAY TWO 


End file.
